


Daddy's Boy

by SailorChibi



Series: spn kink meme fills [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Adult baby, Age Play, Alternate Universe, Bathing, Cuddling, Daddy!Cas, Daddy!Sam, Diapers, Drug Use, Fluff, Gag, Gen, Human!Castiel - Freeform, Hurt/Comfort, Infantilism, John Winchester is a shit parent, Kidnapping, M/M, PTSD, Pacifiers, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Sick Dean Winchester, Spanking, Stockholm Syndrome, baby!dean - Freeform, bottles, dub con infantalism, non-con infantalism, nonsexual age play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-17
Updated: 2014-10-31
Packaged: 2018-01-19 18:52:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 44,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1480333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorChibi/pseuds/SailorChibi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean was just a shy, lonely college student until the day he was kidnapped. Castiel and Sam are determined to show him what it's like to be the baby of supportive, loving parents. Dean's equally determined to escape - but what he doesn't realize is that his plan to gain the trust of his "parents" by going along with what they want might just be backfiring on him. </p><p>Everything comes to a head the day the FBI finds and brings Dean in... and he discovers that Sam and Castiel are much more than he thought they were.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Nonsexual age play is such a huge kink of mine. Even though I really don't like Sastiel I had to fill this. The Sam/Castiel is _extremely_ minor, about as minor as I can make it. This fill would just not leave me alone.

One of the things Dean likes the most about working in the library is that it doesn't require a lot of effort on his part. That's getting more and more important lately, since just walking around can leave him feeling tired and drained. Most nights he gets relegated to the children's section, where no one else likes to work, and that's fine with him. He likes being around kids, likes that he can sit down on the ground with them while their parents are off doing God knows what (sometimes not even in the library) and it counts as working.

That's where he is on closing night one especially cold Tuesday night, looking through a picture book with a little girl who comes in on a regular basis. Her name is Dorothy and she's a sweetheart, one of those kids who has such a great smile that you always feel the need to smile back. Not tonight, though. Tonight Dean is so tired he just wants to put his head down on the floor and fall asleep while listening to the sound of Dorothy patiently sounding her way through the words in the book. If he can sleep through the hunger pains, that is, because with a belly so empty that it's cramping it's never easy.

Dorothy's mother comes to get her a few minutes later and Dean sits up sluggishly once they're gone, relieved to find that the room isn't too messy. A lot of the cleanup work can be done by the interns, but everything in its place was drilled into him a long time ago. He drags himself up and sets to straightening the shelves. It's steady work, soothing, and his eyes are heavily lidded by the time he's done a case. God he wants to sleep for the next twelve hours, but he's got a class at 7:30am right up until 2:00pm and then it's back to the library from 2:30pm until 10:00pm, when they close.

Or at least that's how it's supposed to go. The look on the face of his boss when she walks into the room tells him a little differently. "Dean," Lisa says, and then she pauses like she's not sure how best to break the news. "I'm afraid we're going to have to let you go."

Dean freezes. "What? Why?"

"Budget cuts. I'm really sorry, but as one of our newer hires that means you're on the bottom of the list." Lisa looks genuinely regretful, not that it makes a difference. "I tried to keep you on as long as I could, but there's just no more money. I only found out tonight... I've spent the last hour arguing with my boss, but..." She holds an envelope out to him and repeats, "I'm sorry. I wish I could've given you more notice."

And just like that he's unemployed, left staring at his last paycheck with only the cold, creeping realization that he doesn't even have enough money to make rent at the end of the month. Never mind food or electricity, he's utterly fucked.

But then, it's not like that's a change from the rest of his life. Since his father kicked him out the day he turned 18, Dean's life has been one misery after another. Or, no, scratch that. Since the day his mother died when he was only six years old, his life has been hell. He doesn't know why he's been expecting it to change now.

He doesn't bother with the rest of the cleaning, just grabs his jacket and takes off. It's freezing outside and he's cold immediately, the thin fabric doing little to protect him from the late autumn chill. He shivers and stuffs his hands in his pockets, sparing a fleeting thought for the car he'd always imagined would be his. Unfortunately when John showed him the door he hadn't handed over a set of car keys. Dean hasn't seen his mom's '67 Impala in over three years and he tries not to delude himself into thinking he'll ever see it again.

It's a long walk back to campus and normally he doesn't mind, but with the loss of his job and no idea what the fuck he's gonna do next he kinda wishes he could just sit down and go to sleep under the nearest bench. If he happened to freeze to death so much the better, since it's not like anyone would miss him. He shoves his hands in his pockets and discovers a few coins, enough to take the luxury of public transport.

He heads off the road and slinks over to the bench, sinking down and putting his head in his hands. The familiar burning sensation behind his eyes makes him squeeze them shut, pushing his fists into them uselessly because his breath won't stop hitching with choked back sobs.

"Hello, Dean."

Dean starts, his head snapping up. He relaxes just a little when he sees who it is. "Oh. Hello Mr. Moore." He swallows hard, embarrassed to have been caught on the edge of tears. "The library's closed."

"How many times do I have to tell you? It's Castiel. And I know the library is closed, I figured that when I saw you sitting here. It's not safe to be out here alone, Dean."

"I'll be fine."

Castiel doesn't look convinced. "You live on campus, right? I'm headed that way. I'll give you a ride." He tips his head towards the car idling on the road. Dean's eyes widen a little. It's a gorgeous piece of work, not in the Impala's alley but pretty damn close, and his fingers itch to be able to get inside. But he knows better than to jump inside a car with a stranger.

But. Castiel's not really a _stranger_. He's been bringing his niece into story time twice a month for about the past six months. He always takes the time to talk to Dean. He never makes Dean feel like an idiot the way some customers do, never talks down to him or gets rude or aggressive. Sometimes he even helps Dean to put away the books the kids have left out. And Claire is an angel, the sweetest little girl Dean has ever met.

"Are you sure?" he asks weakly.

"Of course. Come on."

The car's even nicer close up and Dean feels a little tension sliding away as soon as the door is shut, the warmth blasting from the heaters soothing him and chasing the chill from his flesh. He holds his hands out, shivering a little harder now that he's warming up, and catches Castiel watching him. Instantly he blushes, quickly drawing his hands back into his lap.

"S-sorry," he stutters.

"You were cold, weren't you? And you're hungry, too."

The way Castiel says it, so matter of fact, is humiliating. "I'm fine," he says again, the protest sounding weak even to his own ears.

"Really? Are you sure?"

"Yeah." Dean will be. He's found a way to make it work until now. He'll find another job. Somewhere.

"Because you know, it doesn't have to be this way. There's a better life for you, Dean, if you're open to the idea."

"W-what?" His eyes widen, shocked by the implication. "I'm - I'm not some whore!" he snaps, though he can't silence the tiny voice in the back of his mind that whispers he might have to be soon if this keeps up.

Much to Dean's surprise, Castiel looks enraged. "No, you're not. You're precious, but you have no idea. None of them do. They don't appreciate you or love you the way you deserve. No one ever has, isn't that right?" His voice drops into a soothing whisper. "Your father treated you cruelly when he bothered to pay attention to you, didn't he? And then he kicked you out. You went to college because it's what your mom wanted, even though you don't think you're smart enough to be here and your grades suffer as a result. You worked at the library, the only job you could get, for a pittance of what you're truly worth, and it's useless because you're starving even while working yourself to death."

Dean just stares at him, utterly speechless at hearing his life laid out before him so openly. Some of those things are private, so _personal_.

"But it doesn't have to be this way, Dean. Wouldn't you like it if someone were to care for you? Protected you, cherished you, loved the way you've always longed for. Someone who would take care of your every whim. The parents you should've had as a child." Castiel looks at him and that eye contact is enough to break Dean out of his stupor. He fumbles for the door handle, but it's locked.

"Look man, I dunno what game you're playing but I'm not interested," he says, his heart pounding fast now.

Castiel smiles gently. "I think you are."

"No, I'm really not. So just - just let me out, okay, and I'll forget this ever happened."

"I can't do that, sweetheart. My partner and I have been waiting a long time for a baby, and when we saw you... you were perfect. We're not letting you go now."

He's seconds away from using his elbow to break the window when Dean feels it, the thin sting of a needle sliding deep into the flesh of his arm. He stares at the needle dumbly before lifting his eyes to Castiel's face. The emotions he sees there are terrifying. No anger, no insanity, not even lust: just... compassion, and concern, and something that looks a little like affection.

"It's alright, Dean," Castiel murmurs, removing the needle as his face becomes increasingly difficult to focus on. "You don't need to worry about anything else anymore."


	2. Chapter 2

A hand on his shoulder and the softly spoken sound of his name being called pulls Dean from his sleep. Lifting his eyelids is a struggle, and it takes a few seconds for his eyes to actually focus - and when they finally do and gets a decent look at what's going on, he almost wishes he'd just kept sleeping.

Castiel is standing over him, along with a huge man Dean only vaguely recognizes. He's seen this guy around the library with Castiel and Claire a couple of times; sometimes he'll drop them off and then return to pick them up later, but Dean's never met him in person. Noticing that he is the center of Dean's focus, the man smiles.

"Hello Dean," he says quietly. "My name is Sam. I'm Castiel's husband, and I'm very happy to finally have the opportunity to meet you face to face."

Dean wants to say that he has no idea why Sam feels this information is relevant to him. It's only then that he realizes he can't. There's something in his mouth, small and rubbery between his teeth. He moves it around cautiously, pushing his tongue against it, and only realizes after the fact that it looks like he's sucking on the pacifier when both Castiel and Sam beam.

Immediately he tries to spit it out, but the strap securing it around his head makes that impossible. His distress only grows sharper when he realizes his hands and legs are also tied down, holding him down tightly enough that he can only wiggle a little. Without meaning to, he whimpers.

"It's alright," Castiel murmurs, reaching down to comb a hand through his hair. "Shh, don't panic. This is just for now, until you become used to your new life. We're not going to hurt you, Dean."

Yeah right, because no one _ever_ wants to hurt Dean and two strangers who kidnapped him are going to be the ones to start a new tradition. He hopes his eyes are enough to accurately convey the massive _go fuck yourself_ he really wishes he could say.

Castiel sighs. He never stops running his fingers through Dean's hair as he says, "We're not bad people. Your father and I met several years ago through our work. We dated for a while before we got married, and now we want a child."

"But adoption through the regular route isn't exactly an option," Sam says, draping an arm around Castiel's shoulders and squeezing him tightly. "We did try, but something always went wrong and... we couldn't take it anymore." He takes his eyes off Dean for the first time to give Castiel a worried look.

"Of course, we could've gone with a private adoption for enough money. That's not an issue for us, but after some research it occurred to me that, considering our lifestyle, an adult baby might be a better match," Castiel says, seamlessly picking up where Sam left off and seeming not to notice the look Sam's giving him. "After all, why have a child who grows up when you can have one that will remain a baby forever?"

A cold chill goes through Dean and he tries to jerk his head away from the hand in his hair, but Castiel just follows him with an amused smile, like it's a game.

Sam says, "I'm sure you understand how you fit into this. There are adoption agencies for adult children too, but none of them seemed to be the right fit. And then Cas found you." He grins proudly and squeezes Castiel again. "He fell in love with you instantly, and once we did a little searching into your background we knew you would be perfect."

His heart's pounding and all Dean can do is look from one to the other. _Perfect for what?_ he wants to demand, because oh god he knows where this is going but he can't acknowledge the truth of it yet.

"And now you're here," Castiel says, brushing the backs of his fingers against Dean's cheek. "And you're all ours."

Yup, that's it, Dean can't breathe anymore. His chest feels painfully tight, like he's being squeezed from the inside out, and the more he tries to stop it the worse it gets. The world tightens and spins, the corners of his vision graying out, and he coughs and gags for air that won't come past the pacifier.

His father always told him that his pretty boy looks would get him in trouble at some point, and it stings that he'd been right: that no one is even going to look for him now because the library isn't expecting him to show up for shifts and he's allowed himself to get caught by foolishly trusting a stranger. This is all his fault.

He vaguely registers a hand coming down towards him and flinches away, another whimper slipping out before he can stop it. He squeezes his eyes shut and turns his head into the soft sheet beneath his cheek, trembling uncontrollably. Gritting his teeth in anticipation of the blow doesn't help, makes the panic even worse.

There's a long pause before the hand actually touches him, and then it's to the back of his head. The pacifier falls away and suddenly Dean is gasping in huge gulps of air, only it doesn't seem to be making much difference. More hands touch him and he flinches, tries to squirm away, as he's lifted up and settled against a warm body.

Someone starts rubbing his back, big gentle circles, but even with that and the familiar rhythm of a heartbeat against his side it still seems to take forever before his body starts to calm down. Dean is left shaking and embarrassed, because it's been years since he had a panic attack and he'd been so _sure_ that he had left the childish tendency behind him.

An ugly voice inside whispers, maybe this is why they picked you.

"We're right here, Dean. You're alright. It's okay. We're sorry for scaring you," Castiel's deep voice is murmuring, and Dean fights to get his eyes open again. His hands and ankles are still bound, but even if they weren't he feels too weak to even attempt to run. Castiel is sitting in front of him and he's the one rubbing Dean's back. It's oddly comforting, but strange.

"Is he awake?" Sam asks, and it rumbles through his chest.

"A little bit. I didn't think he would react that way." Castiel sounds upset, and if Dean had the strength he would smirk 'cause maybe this won't turn out like they thought, shoulda thought better than picking fuck-up Dean Winchester.

"Ask Charlie to do more research into his father."

"I will." The hand on his back slows, stops, and then much to Dean's shock drops down to feel around between his thighs. He jolts away but Sam holds him easily, and Castiel says, "He needs to be changed."

"I'll do it. You go talk to Charlie."

Castiel nods. He looks down at Dean and his expression is confusing, so worried. He leans down and kisses Dean's forehead, then up to kiss Sam on the mouth, before he slides off and walks out of the room.

"Oh baby," Sam sighs, and then he scoots them both to the edge of the - bed? No. It's a flat surface several feet off the ground, but three sides are surrounded by bars. The fourth side is dropped down so Sam and Castiel could sit and comfort him. Like a _crib_.

Sam leaves him lying there. Dean tries to track his movements, but the room is pretty dark. His mind is spinning too much to really understand what's going on until Sam comes back and pulls him around, shifting his lower half towards the edge of the bed. He starts fiddling with something and then Dean gets it, he fucking gets it, and he wishes he didn't.

He's wearing a diaper.

Worse than that, he's pissed in it.

There are no words to accurately describe his humiliation.

"Don't," he manages, suddenly remembering that the pacifier gag was removed.

"Dean, you need to be changed."

"No! You can't do this! Lemme go, you sonavabitch! I'm gonna - mmmph!" He chokes a muffled protest when the pacifier is pushed back in. Sam ties the strap again, though more loosely.

"Your papa and I don't want to hear that naughty language," he says calmly, and pulls the diaper away leaving Dean half naked. At the first touch of a wipe, Dean shuts his eyes. He's never been this exposed, this vulnerable, and it twists his insides with a hot knife of mortification.

Sam talks to him through it, but the words are inconsequential and Dean doesn't really hear them. He tries to pretend it's not happening, that some stranger isn't methodically wiping off his cock and balls, spreading the cheeks of his ass to make sure all traces of piss are gone. Sam dusts him with baby powder and then puts on a new diaper, patting the straps down with his huge hand.

"All clean," he says cheerfully. "You're such a good boy, Dean, messing in your diaper."

Dean's in hell. There's no other way to describe it.


	3. Chapter 3

Losing track of time is easy. He tries not to sleep, because he thinks that it's better to stay awake and alert, but sometimes that's hard. Dean doesn't know what day it is, hell a lot of the time he doesn't even know what time it is, but what he does know is that it's not going to be a simple matter to escape. And he will, if only because the thought of spending the rest of his life like this - flat on his back, staring up at a ceiling, waiting for some pervert to come in and wipe his ass - is unbearable. 

But Castiel and Sam are strong. Sam has a good half a foot of height on him easily and he's well muscled. Castiel is about an inch shorter than Dean and lankier than his husband, but he's not lacking in strength either. And both of them watch Dean constantly. He's either tied down in the crib or one of them is in the room, within arm's reach, and he's incapacitated to the point where he'd never make it to the door. So as much as he hates the thought of even _pretending_ to give in, he knows he has to. He has to earn their trust and then seize his chance to disappear before they even realize what's happening.

It's knowing that he has a plan, flimsy though it may be, that finally lets him accept the food that Castiel tries to give him. He's turned it down a couple of times now even though both of them have offered, turning his head away and refusing to let them put the nipple of the bottle in his mouth, thinking that he'd rather starve to death before he'd willingly wrap his lips around it. Or at least, he tells himself that it's because of his plan and not because of the hunger that's moved past painful and into a nausea that makes his insides contract constantly. 

Castiel is the one who brings it this time, approaching the crib slowly so as not to startle Dean, bottle held up so that it can be easily seen. "Hello, Dean," he says softly. "Are you hungry?"

Dean smacks his lips around the pacifier and makes his decision. The look of surprise on Castiel's face when he nods makes him feel weird, but he brushes it off as Castiel sets the bottle aside and unhooks the fourth side of the crib. It drops silently to the ground and Dean squirms, eager to be out of the crib for the first time. Sam and Castiel haven't let him move much and he's desperate to spend some time not staring up at a white ceiling. Even just sitting up for a while will feel like a brand new experience. Castiel chuckles a little at his excitement and unhooks the straps that keep him pinned to the bed.

He could make a run for it. Could punch Castiel in the face and dive for the door. He doesn't. He lays there quietly and allows Castiel to reach for him, hiding his troubled expression in Castiel's shoulder when the man lifts him up effortlessly. How the hell is that even possible? Dean's taller than him for god's sake, and yet Castiel carries him across the room as though Dean weighs no more than a ten pound cat. There's a rocking chair in the corner of the room, he sees for the first time, only it's more like a rocking couch: wide enough that the two of them can sit comfortably side by side. 

The rocking couch is positioned so Dean can look out the window.

His eyes widen with fascination and he lets Castiel arrange them as he pleases, too focused on getting his first glimpse of the world outside. The view is not as pleasing as he'd like. There does seem to be other houses, and large ones at that, but they're spaced quite far apart and each one has a fenced back yard. That means help is not nearly as close as he would like it to be. There's no woods, either, not even some foliage behind which he could conceal himself while he waited for an opportunity to run. The lawn out back is smooth and green for the most part, with only a large sandbox and a swing set to break up the monotony.

"Do you like it?" Castiel asks, like he's going to get an answer even though Dean's still wearing the pacifier gag. He's sitting straight up, weirdly perfect posture, and has curled Dean up against him, his shoulders held to Castiel's chest. It should be uncomfortable, trying to fit so much weight into the lap of someone smaller than him, but it's not. Dean blinks up at him.

Castiel smiles and undoes the gag, pulling the pacifier from his mouth. This time, when he offers the bottle, Dean eyes it nervously. It looks pretty much like any other baby's bottle he's ever seen, only larger. The rubber nipple looks sturdier, meant for the teeth of a grown human male maybe. The liquid inside is white and looks like milk. Overall it looks pretty harmless.

But it's a _bottle_. A fucking baby's bottle, meant for fucking babies. 

He can't do this.

There must be something in his face that gives a hint as to the coming panic attack, because Castiel's smile becomes a little sadder. Without a word he squeezes some of the liquid onto his index finger, then pops his finger into Dean's mouth. He's removed it before Dean even really registers what's going on, and then he's too busy being caught up in the deliciously awesome taste of apples and cinnamon. Seriously, whatever's in the bottle tastes like the closest approximation of apple pie that he's ever had. His stomach growls and the decision is made, body reacting of its own accord.

With a little whimper he latches on, sucking furiously and moaning in relief as more of it trickles across his tongue. It takes a little effort to figure out the best way to suck. Tipping his head back helps thanks to gravity, and so does taking a little puff of air in between each gulp. Castiel holds the bottle for him, obligingly moving it whenever Dean shifts around. He tries not to think about the look of pride on Castiel's face as he watches Dean drink. It's too unnerving. He closes his eyes and focuses on drinking as quickly as he can instead, hoping to get the experience over fast.

"Good boy, Dean," Castiel murmurs after a few minutes. The couch moves a little, rocking back and forth, and with his free hand he starts to rub at Dean's belly, soothing the rest of the cramps. "You're such a good boy."

Something in Dean's chest squeezes tight.

The rocking is strangely soothing and his belly is getting full; the bottle is a lot more filling than he was expecting. Dean suckles more slowly now, eyes half lidded and watching Castiel watch him. He sees Sam first, appearing over Castiel's shoulder. But even though Castiel isn't watching, he seems to know Sam is there. Or at least, he's not surprised by the hand that Sam drops lightly onto his shoulder. Castiel tips his head up and Sam smiles, leaning down to kiss him. They start talking quietly in a language Dean doesn't know.

Still working on the bottle, Dean turns his head away from them and looks back to the window. From his different vantage point he can see further, and now he realizes that there's a playground not too far away. A bunch of little kids are playing soccer, even though most of them aren't even tall enough to kick the ball right. Still, they look happy and he wishes more than anything that he could be out there running around with them. He hasn't been to a playground in years. Not since his mom died. John didn't take him afterwards, and by the time Adam came around they were both much too old to be playing outside. He wonders what it's like to play outside with your mom and dad nearby, waiting to take you home. He can't remember, but it must be nice.

At some point his eyes slide shut and the bottle is pulled away. Dean grumbles because there was still some left and feels more than hears the vibration of Castiel's laughter in response. He's lifted up, pressed against a shoulder, and then a strong hand thumps him on the back. He chokes a little and burps, surprised.

"Alright, Dean," Sam says, pushing some hair back from Dean's forehead. "That's Daddy's good boy."

Again his chest squeezes and he frowns. Sam doesn't appear to mind the scowl, and he thinks about cussing the man out but then that would ruin his plan. Sam's already shown that he doesn't want to hear foul language. So Dean keeps quiet, even when Sam sits down next to Castiel and they rearrange him until he's splayed out across both of them with his head against Sam's shoulder now. It should be weird, is weird, because he's only wearing a diaper and a thin t-shirt. But Castiel keeps rubbing his belly and Sam keeps stroking his hair and one of them keeps rocking the couch slowly, back and forth, in a rhythm that is strangely compelling. He can't help falling asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

There's something in the bottle that makes him sleep heavy and deep, right through his body making certain decisions on his behalf that, had he been conscious, he would've vehemently fought against. By the time Dean wakes up again, his head feels muddled and his eyelids weigh about ten pounds each and it’s already happened, not that he notices at first. He just wants to keep sleeping and it takes him a moment to realize what woke him.

Someone's leaning over him, talking to him in a low voice, and a hand pats at his bottom. He twitches away from the intrusion as best he can, eyes dragging shut. He's decidedly _not_ pleased when he's scooped up, plucked right up out of his comfortably warm spot, and carried over and set down on a hard table.

He whines, striking out instinctively with limbs too heavy to do much damage. Sam - and it is him, Dean can make out his face now - dodges the blows easily and bats his hands away. He fastens Dean down with more restraints, keeping him from being able to sit up or roll off the table, but leaves his lower half mostly free.

Dean gets why when Sam deftly unsnaps his diaper. The smell is revolting and he crinkles his nose even as he turns bright red with embarrassment. He can't help trying to get away no matter how useless it is.

"It's okay," Sam says gently, patting him on the belly. "You're being a good boy, baby. Perfect little man, just like we knew you would be. It'll be over soon and then we'll go have breakfast with Papa..." His voice is soft and comforting as he rolls up the contents of the diaper and disposes of it, then begins the task of cleaning Dean up with wipes.

And Dean... doesn't get it. Why Sam and Castiel would want to subject themselves to this. It's one thing to have an actual baby around that you have to clean up after for a couple years until they're potty trained. He can understand that. Kids get potty trained eventually. But an adult human is something different altogether. It doesn't make sense. Why isn't Sam recoiling, disgusted at the mess Dean's been forced to make? Why make him do it in the first place?

There's something wrong with them. Has to be. He struggles a little harder, whimpering when Sam parts his thighs and lifts his hips to get at his buttocks. His genitals already itch unpleasantly from time spent laying around in waste and he doesn't want to do this again. Will they just keep drugging him so that he has no choice but to live through this?

He closes his eyes again, for the time being not minding the grip of the drug trying to drag him back under if it means he can ignore what's going on. But it doesn't really work. He feels every touch of Sam's fingers as cream is carefully rubbed between his legs, followed by a light dusting of baby powder and then a fresh diaper. By the end of it, he's just relieved to be covered again.

"God, Dean, you're amazing," Sam murmurs, sounding almost reverent as he finishes cleaning up and washes his hands. He undoes the restraints one arm at a time and slips something over Dean's hands. They feel almost like giant oven mitts. 

Then he says, "Come on, let's go see Papa" and picks Dean up again. Dean feels his heart quicken as they walk towards the door.

The light hurts his eyes and he hides his face with a grimace, peeking out as best he can. The bedroom - he refuses to call it a nursery - door leads out into a hallway lined with more closed doors. Sam turns to the right, humming under his breath, and carries Dean down the stairs. At the bottom, he latches a gate behind them before walking into a living room.

It's a pretty large room with floor to ceiling windows along the whole right wall. Castiel is sitting on the couch, paging through a book. He looks up and smiles broadly at the sight of them. "Finally awake?"

"He didn't want to get up," Sam says. "Still a little sleepy, I think." He sets Dean down on the couch and, in a scramble to get away from the man who'd just had his hands all over his dick, Dean ends up pressing himself into Castiel's side.

Castiel chuckles softly, brushing a few strands of hair out of Dean's eyes. "You can't sleep all day, Dean. If you do, you won’t be sleepy at bedtime." He glances up at Sam. "Charlie called. Something needs to be done about Martin."

Sam sighs. "I'll give her a call back," he says, sounding none too pleased about the idea. "Then I'll start on breakfast."

"Just let us know when it's ready," Castiel says, reclining grandly against the couch. He laughs when Sam gives him the finger and Dean tries not to smile, relieved that the pacifier hides the twitch of his lips. He's not sure he likes seeing the two of them act so... normal.

The diaper change and the walk downstairs have woken him up a little more and he looks at his hands. The mitts are made of a lightweight material and are bright blue, patterned with little black cars. It doesn't take a genius to figure out what they're for. Even when he flexes his hands the fabric barely moves. There's no way he'd be able to fight or even pick something up; like this, he can't even twist a doorknob.

God but the lengths they're going to are truly disturbing. The adult-sized crib, the changing table, the diapers, the bottles. Dean ignores the cold knot of fear that settles into his belly, the one that questions whether or not he'll be able to make it out of here intact. He tells himself that Sam and Castiel are only human, that at some point (hopefully in the near future) they'll screw up.

"Dean? Do you want to play?"

Dean looks over at Castiel with unfocused eyes. He receives a gentle smile in return as Castiel sets his book aside and gets up. "Daddy and I bought you some toys. I think you'll like them."

Castiel picks him up – seriously, he's so over the whole being carried thing - and walks over to the playpen that's been set up in the corner of the room. It's open for now, but there's still a blue blanket on the floor and a couple of toys laid out. Some cars, a little plastic train, several blocks: the kinds of toys they have set out at the children's section of the library.

And Castiel sets him down like he thinks Dean's gonna go crazy with joy.

He stares at the toys for a moment, then looks up at Castiel with his best _you've gotta be kidding me_ expression.

"You don't feel like playing?" Castiel says calmly, either not noticing or ignoring the look. "Okay. Maybe later we can color instead. Why don't I read to you?"

There's a little bookshelf beside the pen. Castiel selects a book and sits down next to him. But before he opens it, he says, "Oh, we forgot something."

Jesus. Dean's pretty sure his face perfectly catalogues his horror. What else could there be?

His mind abruptly stops coming up with terrifying scenarios when Castiel rummages around in a big black box tucked behind the couch and then produces a stuffed animal. An elephant, to be exact. It's bright blue and about the size of a small cat, with big, glassy brown eyes and pink felt on the end of its trunk. He knows, without even touching it, that its fur is impossibly soft.

It looks identical to the one John chucked in the trash four days after his mom died.

Until that day, he'd slept with that elephant every night. They had a little ritual, him and his mom. She would give him a bath and then read Dean and the elephant, Mike, a story. She'd kiss him on the forehead and whisper, "Angels are watching over you, baby."

He couldn't sleep without it, as a matter of fact. He'd left it at a friend's once when he was three and Mary had made his father go retrieve it at 1am because Dean wouldn't stop howling. After John threw it out, it took him weeks to be able to fall asleep without the comforting weight in his arms. It had still smelled like her when John took it away from him.

Seeing what’s basically the same toy now reminds him so strongly of his mom that his throat aches and the room goes all blurry. If she were here, this wouldn't be happening. John wouldn't have gone off the rails. He wouldn't have married Kate or had Adam, wouldn't have kicked Dean out. He'd still be at home, with a mom and dad and baby brother or sister.

"Oh Dean." Castiel's hand comes down on his shoulder and Dean wrenches away instinctively. He doesn't want comfort from the people who have kidnapped him.

"Okay. Okay, that's fine." Hands held up in a calming position, Castiel keeps his distance. "I'll just read out loud until Daddy comes to get us for breakfast, how's that?"

Dean ignores him and the elephant, curling up into a small ball and hiding his face, arms wrapped around his legs. He wants to go home, only he’s not sure where that is anymore.


	5. Chapter 5

Castiel reads out loud from one of the books until Sam pokes his head in to tell them that breakfast is ready. Dean hasn't really been listening to the words, but he discovers that the rhythm is comforting: Castiel’s voice is deep, gravelly, but curls around each word like it’s something to be treasured. It helps to push back the tears that are clogging his throat and keeps them from spilling freely down his face the way they want to, the way will power alone isn’t enough to stop.

He gets carried into the kitchen, where Castiel sets him down in a chair that looks nearly identical to the ones he and Sam will be sitting in. Except for a key difference: namely, the restraints on either side of the chair that can be strapped across his hips, belly and chest. There’s even a set of straps for his arms, though for the moment Castiel does not use them. Once Dean is strapped in, he fixes a white, plastic tray in place just above Dean’s knees. It is, effectively, the adult version of a high chair.

The embarrassment of it all is temporarily forgotten, though, in the wake of the smell of pancakes. Dean’s stomach starts rumbling immediately. Aside from the bottle, it’s been at least a couple days since he had a decent meal and probably longer. He watches longingly as Sam brings a platter of perfectly cooked golden brown pancakes to the table. Some of them are even dotted with chocolate chips, and there’s fruit and whipped cream and maple syrup just waiting to be slathered on. His mouth fills with saliva and he swallows, sucks hard on the pacifier in an effort to keep the painful hunger pangs at bay.

Sam looks at him, amused and affectionate, then reaches out to push a hand through his hair. “You hungry, baby?” he asks. 

God yes. Dean whines and sucks harder, never taking his eyes off the pancakes. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices that Castiel and Sam are exchanging a look but he can’t be bothered to pay that much attention. Never mind the shit food he's been living on, he hasn’t had a meal like this since he was kicked out of the house. He’d give a lot to get even _one_ of those pancakes in his belly.

“We’re gonna feed you,” Sam says, and Dean finally breaks his staring contest with the pancakes to look at him. He can’t tell if Sam is being honest or not, whether this is some cruel taunt designed to break him faster. Sam just sighs and sits down, puts a chocolate chip pancake on a plate and begins cutting it into small pieces. He even drizzles a little maple syrup over them. Dean watches with rapt fascination, not reacting when Castiel unsnaps the gag, not even trying to push the pacifier out or squirm away when a bib is tied around his neck. 

His whole world is concentrated on that perfect, flaky, chocolately pancake and light brown syrup.

Sam takes the fork and stabs a little piece of pancake. He hooks the pacifier out of Dean's mouth and then offers the bite. Dean stares at the pancake, then at Sam. He's not sure if it's a trick. He thinks it might be. It would probably be wiser to say no.

But it looks _so good_ , and the bottle feels like it was ages ago. His belly is growling and he knows from experience the hunger pangs aren't gonna go away. Sam waits, patient, not moving the fork an inch. He's smiling and, when Dean glances around to check, so is Castiel. Both of them are watching him, waiting, and there's not even the slightest hint of anger or frustration that he's taking this long to decide.

Slowly, he leans forward and wraps his mouth around the fork, presses his lips down and slides back. The pancake is soft and sweet, the chocolate melting across his tongue, and he can't help moaning in appreciation. Sam grins as he takes another piece and offers it, and this time Dean is much quicker to accept.

"I'm glad you like my cooking," Sam quips once about half the little mound is gone, setting the fork down to swipe at Dean's face with a napkin. He whines out a protest and squirms away, and it doesn't even occur to him that he'd reacted exactly the way a little kid would until Sam's popping another chunk of pancake into his mouth.

"He's a good eater," Castiel says approvingly, finally cutting into his own pancake. It's a plain one, but the lack of chocolate chips is more than made up for with maple syrup and whipped cream.

"Yeah. Looks like our baby has a good appetite," Sam replies, and it's said so lovingly that Dean flushes and drops his eyes, the confusion rolling over him in waves. No matter how long it goes on for this situation makes no sense. He refuses to take the rest of the pancake from Sam, turning his head and keeping his mouth staunchly shut until finally Sam gives up and starts in on his own breakfast.

Dean sits there and watches the two of them eat, because he can't leave and there's nothing else to do. Sam seems to favor a healthier approach, because his pancake is covered with strawberries and blueberries. Every once in a while he'll pick up a particularly juicy strawberry and hold it out for Castiel to eat. The smoldering look in Castiel's eyes when he licks at Sam's fingers makes Dean blush for an entirely different reason. It feels like something he shouldn't be watching.

Then again, this whole situation feels like something he shouldn't be _experiencing_. Sam and Castiel don't seem to be crazy - or they do, but not in the way he expected. They haven't tried to fuck him, haven't taken photographs or beaten him or touched him in a sexual way. They haven't even tried to make Dean touch them. And he can't know for sure, but he's almost positive that nothing untoward happened while he's been unconscious.

So far they've fed him and given him a place to sleep, a roof over his head and more affection than he's had in years. And Dean hates to admit it, but he can't stop himself from thinking that this is what he used to wish would happen, diapers and bottles and crib aside, when he was a kid. Right after his mom died, when his dad was just starting to get heavy into drinking, he used to wish John would give him up for adoption to a family that actually wanted him.

"Why?" The word slips out before Dean can stop it, and it's quiet but he knows they both hear it from the way all activity immediately stops. He forces his eyes up from the tray, half-expecting to have the pacifier shoved back into his mouth along with an admonition about how babies don't talk, and looks at the two of them through his lashes.

"Why what, Dean?" Sam asks after a moment's pause, setting his fork and knife aside. He glances at Castiel and, when Dean just bites his lip instead of elaborating, they share a private look before he continues, "Cas and I explained to you why we decided not to go the route of a private adoption. There are... certain things about our lifestyle that would be dangerous for a normal child, particularly once they started to grow up. That's what makes you so perfect." He smiles again, so softly that Dean squirms.

"We understand that you're having some difficulty settling into your life," Castiel adds. "We're not going to punish you for that, Dean. This period of adjustment will be hard on all of us, but we're going to make it through. You'll see. We love you. We want you to trust us and be happy."

He licks his lips nervously, forces the question out. "Why... me?"

Because that's the crux of the matter, isn't it? Out of everyone they could've snatched off the streets, Dean doesn't get why they picked him. It's not like he's the only one without family or friends or a job. There have to be other people out there who wouldn't be missed, people who would give in to everything Castiel and Sam are doing without planning an escape. So why Dean? Why waste all of this twisted bull shit on him?

When he reaches towards Dean, Castiel moves slowly. Deliberately. He gives Dean plenty of time to see the hand coming, fingers sliding under his chin and nudging his head up until they're looking at each other. And still he waits, ordering but not forcing, "Look at me, Dean."

Dean doesn't. Can't, not at first. The minutes tick by in silence while he stares off to the side, his heart beating furiously, until finally curiosity finally drives him to meet Castiel's scrutinizing blue eyes.

"When I first met you, you were just another student working at the library. But it did not take me long to realize that you were more than that. I saw how you interacted with the children, Dean. How easily you got down on their level, how much you enjoyed interacting with them. The second day that Claire and I came by, I watched you watch another little boy being picked up by his mommy. It was so obvious that _you_ were waiting to be picked up, too."

His mouth opens automatically to deny this, but Castiel's fingers gently push it shut. "No. Listen to me. The more I watched you after that, the more I realized how much you needed someone to love and care for you. You ask for so little even though you give so much. You were already everything Sam and I could have wanted our child to be, but you had no one and nothing. How could I have chosen anyone else?"

Dean stares at him. He has nothing to say in response to this and Castiel knows it judging from the sad quirk of his lips. He rubs his thumb tenderly over Dean's cheek. "You are so precious, Dean, even though I know that you don't believe a word I'm saying. Your father..." He trails off and shakes his head, like he's not sure how to put it into words. "Your father was a foolish man. My only hope is that someday Sam and I will be able to make you understand how worthwhile you are."

Still speechless, Dean keeps staring dumbly as Castiel pulls his hand away and stands up. Sam joins him and they carry the dishes over to the sink. His chest feels squeezed tight. That was not the answer he was expecting to hear and he doesn't know what to do about it. He keeps chewing on his bottom lip.

When they're finished tidying up and Sam comes to get him with a bottle of apple juice and the blue elephant and an offer of a movie, he doesn't object, just curls into Sam's side and sucks on the bottle and tries to focus on the children's movie instead of the increasingly confusing thoughts muddling around inside of his head.


	6. Chapter 6

The days start to fall into something of a rhythm almost without Dean noticing. Sam is almost always the one to wake him up in the morning. Sometimes it’s Castiel, but usually it’s Sam, and after a diaper change he gets carried out to the living room, where Dean sleeps for a little while longer, curled up on the couch besides Castiel, until Sam’s done with breakfast. He finds out pretty fast why Castiel never cooks, after the first time he actually makes an attempt and Sam has to rush out without finishing the diaper change to stop the kitchen from burning down. 

After breakfast he watches a move or gets read to for a while. Every morning they try to get him to play with the baby toys, but he never does. Then Sam lets him “help” prepare lunch. Even though it generally doesn’t consist of more than just watching, Dean likes that, though he’d never admit it. Then after lunch he gets a bottle and goes down for a nap that’s not really necessary - but sleeping is easy, an escape, and even without the aid of a bottle he doesn’t think he’d whine too much. 

When he wakes up from a nap his diaper gets changed again, and then the afternoon is always a little different. He’s never alone, always has Sam or Castiel to interact with, until suppertime. Then it’s one of Dean’s least favorite times of the day, right up there with a diaper change.

Bath time.

The first time it happens is only a couple of days after he’s first been allowed out of his room. He’d woken up from his afternoon nap with a dry diaper, much to his internal pride. He’s learning to take small victories where he can get them and this one is about as small as they come, but every minute he gets to put off a diaper change counts. He hates the way his body disobeys him when he sleeps, the drugs too heavy for him to be able to control his bowels or bladder. It happens automatically, without his permission, and always leaves him with a deepening sense of shame. He gets a little bit of a rush from knowing that when Castiel leans down to check him he’s still dry, the diaper unsoiled. 

Castiel just smiles at him, though, not angry the way Dean thought he would be, and says, “Do you want to help Papa bake a pie?”

Pie? Dean’s eyes widen and he perks up a little. He lives for pie. It was one of the few indulgences he would allow himself when he barely had the money to keep a roof over his head. He’d always stick one of those cheap supermarket pies in his cart on the way to the register and devour it when he got home. The thought of having _homemade_ pie is enough to make his tummy grumble, lunch now a distant memory.

But homemade pie from Castiel? Pie should never be desecrated like that.

He looks at Castiel for a long moment and then he looks at Sam. Sam bursts out laughing and comes over to scoop him up, nuzzling his cheek against Dean’s. “Oh kiddo, the look on your face just now was priceless,” he says, still chuckling.

“I’m not that bad at cooking,” Castiel mumbles, pouting.

“Yes, you are,” Sam says, and if it weren’t for the pacifier gag Dean would’ve been saying it right along with him. Castiel can’t even cook eggs, never mind something as complicated and sacred as pie.

Castiel pouts even harder and Sam grins, walks over to nuzzle him too. “Don’t worry, we love you anyway,” he says affectionately. 

Dean doesn’t, but he doesn’t get a say in this either.

They end up in the kitchen, Castiel and Dean sitting at the table while Sam collects the necessary ingredients. Castiel unstraps the gag from around Dean’s head and he smacks his lips once the pacifier’s out. His mouth is dry and Castiel gets him a bottle of water, holds it so that Dean can drink greedily. Even over the bottle he never stops following Sam’s progress around the kitchen, watching intently as he sets out cinnamon and a bag of apples and a little lemon juice.

“You can cut up the apples once he’s done,” Sam says to Castiel. “I’ll start work on the pie crust.”

He’s done then, pushing the bottle away because pie takes precedence over water, and Castiel just rolls his eyes. But he sets the bottle aside and starts to peel the apples. Dean stares at him, awed. The way Castiel wields the knife is something awesome. He’s deft with it, fingers never getting in the way like Dean’s used to, and he knows how to peel the apple in one smooth sweep without breaking the skin into chunks. It results in one long, bright red peel that Dean tries to snitch as soon as it hits the table, but his mitts make it impossible to pick the peel up.

It takes Castiel a little while to notice and when he does, he laughs. “You can’t wait for the pie to be done?” he asks teasingly, ripping a small piece off and sliding it into Dean’s mouth. The taste is sweet, a touch of tart, and Dean just shakes his head and focuses on savoring.

He’s preoccupied enough with watching them bake in between bites of apple that he doesn’t notice it at first, the slowly pressing need that's developing in his lower belly. He manfully refuses when Sam tries to get him to help roll out the pie, though that doesn’t stop him from getting covered with flour because Sam and Castiel are kinda childish like that and when Sam starts a food fight Castiel knows how to finish it.

He squirms a little when Castiel gets him another bottle of water, only drinking about a quarter of it before refusing the rest. But it doesn’t help. He can't ignore it now; he has to piss. It’s not too bad but then it starts to get worse, the straps across his chest and belly making the pressure more prominent. There’s only one way it’s gonna end unless he can get to the toilet, but he tries not to think about that. Can’t.

Sam spreads the bottom layer of dough across the round pan and then dumps in the mixture of apples, gleaming with sugar and cinnamon. He puts on the top layer and gently starts pinching the edges shut, making his way around with an expression of avid concentration. He finishes the pie off with another light dusting of cinnamon and three slits, carefully cut with a knife, in the top to let steam escape. 

“There,” he says, dusting his hands off. He glances around. “God, we’re a mess.”

“Yes,” Castiel says meaningfully. “We are.”

They both look at Dean then, and he blinks back at them. 

Sam picks up his pacifier, presses it back into his mouth and does the strap around his head. Then he presses a hand to Dean’s belly and says, “You haven’t peed since this morning.”

The protests he immediately makes around the pacifier come out garbled. He settles for shaking his head frantically and squirming harder, this time in a bid to get free. It doesn’t work, of course, the only thing that happens is the chair starts to rock dangerously and Castiel comes up behind him to steady it. He’s trapped between them.

“You shouldn’t hold it, Dean. It’s unhealthy,” Castiel adds quietly. 

“It’s an important step. Come on, baby, it’s okay. Daddy will help you the first time,” Sam coos, and the bastard somehow finds exactly where it aches the most and pushes down gently.

Dean screams, and yeah, okay, pacifier or not that can definitely be heard. The panic sluicing through him is sharp and heavy because this feels like something he can’t come back from. He lashes out with his hands and manages a solid blow against Sam’s stomach before Castiel grabs him, pinning his arms with embarrassing ease. 

He clamps down with all of his muscles, forbidding his body to let go, and at first it works. Then it doesn’t. The pressure builds up fast because it was already pretty bad, and no matter how hard he wriggles and shouts he can’t get away from it. His face is bright red and he can feel tears in his eyes and he fucking _howls_ , swearing at the both of them as chills crawl up and down his flesh and he gets lightheaded.

The first hot, wet spurt between his thighs makes him go quiet, gasping with the effort to hold back. But like that little bit of release is a sign to his body, the rest follows and the stream quickly becomes uncontrollable. Dean slumps into the chair, crying for the first time since he was kidnapped, completely humiliated as his diaper grows wet and sopping.

“Shh,” Castiel whispers, releasing Dean’s arms and rubbing his fingers through Dean’s sweat soaked hair. “Shh, Dean. I know that was hard for you, but Daddy and I are very proud.”

He cries harder, hiding his face in the mitts, wishing that a hole would open up and swallow him. It’s one thing to wake up having pissed himself and knowing it's because he can’t help it, but this is a total loss of control and it’s never gonna stop if he doesn’t manage to escape because they’re gonna want him to do the same thing tomorrow and the next day.

Sam undoes the straps on the chair and picks him up. Dean doesn’t try to get away. He lets himself be carried into the bathroom, but he doesn’t really get what’s going on until Sam puts him down and Castiel pulls his t-shirt off and unsnaps the soaked diaper. It falls to the ground with a wet splat that makes his face burn and he chokes back another sob.

“It’s okay. It’s okay, it's okay,” Castiel keeps saying, wrapping his arms around Dean and stripping the mitts off. Water starts to run somewhere behind them and the pieces click together in Dean’s head over the drone of embarrassment and exhaustion and anger, and he whimpers and tries to pull away, his hands flailing ineffectively even in their freedom. 

“Shh,” Sam says, shushing him again, and they pick him up and set him down in the bath. Dean looks up at them, face tear streaked, miserable and so mortified he’s almost grateful for the gag because he doesn’t know what he’d say. Both their faces soften and they kneel down.

The tub is one of those bigger ones, easily large enough to accommodate three or four fully grown people, and Dean feels dwarfed. He stares listlessly at the water as Castiel soaps up a couple of washcloths and gives one to Sam. They’re gentle, painfully so when he doesn’t want to be touched or even looked at, and he lets them turn him as they wish. The only time he protests is when Sam reaches down to clean between his legs, and Castiel just hushes him with soft words and offers a distraction in the form of shampoo rubbed gently into his hair.

By the time they deem him clean enough Dean is utterly exhausted, eyes sliding shut as he's lifted out of the bath. It’s the first time he’s slept without drugs, but as someone begins to dry him off he doesn’t even try to fight it. Maybe if he sleeps deeply enough, he’ll wake up and find out that this has all been just a dream.


	7. Chapter 7

"I'm worried about him."

Castiel's voice is quiet the way it always is when they start discussing things they don't really want Dean to overhear, but not to the point where it's inaudible. Dean opens his eyes a little. He's laying on the ground in the little gated area. There's a soft purple blanket underneath him, one that feels a lot better against his skin than the carpet would, and his blue elephant is within arm's reach if he were so inclined. He's not, and according to Castiel therein is the problem.

There's a pause before Sam answers, during which Dean can feel the two of them staring at him. "I know, Cas. He doesn't even fight us during a diaper change or at bath time. But what can we do?"

"I just hate seeing him like this. I want him to be happy."

Then maybe you should've thought twice about fucking kidnapping me, Dean longs to say. He sucks sluggishly on the pacifier instead, letting his eyes drift shut again. He's come to realize that fighting them is stupid. They're expecting it, and it serves no purpose except to exhaust him and make them both watch him like a hawk. At least like this, he can conserve energy and encourage them both to fall into a false sense of security for when he makes his escape.

He's got it planned, for the most part. They've started leaving the gag off more often now, and he figures it'll only be a matter of time before the arm mitts start to come off too. And surely one or both of them must have jobs. They can't be together with Dean all the time, right? It's already been... he frowns a little, working it over in his head. How long? One week? Two? A month? He's lost track of time so _fast_. He doesn't think it's been more than a month, but how would he really know?

Either way he's getting out of here, and when he does he's gonna disappear. He doesn't know where he'll go - maybe north to Canada or even south to Mexico, if he has to - or how he's gonna go get there, but he's going. He almost feels sorry for the next son of a bitch they manage to kidnap, because next time around Sam and Castiel will probably be much more careful.

The silence drags on behind him, and then Castiel says hesitantly, "Maybe we should..." and from the way he trails off Dean thinks he's making some sort of hand gesture. He's half-tempted to roll over and try to see what they're planning, but that would mean letting them know he's awake instead of sleeping. He stays still.

"Are you sure he's ready for that?"

"It will do all of us some good, Sam, and we'll both be there in case something goes wrong. I'm not sure how much longer I can stay cooped up in this house without going stir crazy, never mind the baby."

Sam sighs. "Okay, you're right. Let me just go make sure the gate is locked."

Gentle fingers touch Dean's head a moment later, sliding through his hair in a soothing way that only Castiel seems capable of getting right. He blinks sleepily and Castiel's face does that weird look, the one where his blue eyes go all soft and the corners of his mouth quirk up with so much affection it makes Dean's chest squeeze tight. Castiel keeps petting his head for a minute, then leans down and picks him up.

"Come on," he murmurs into Dean's hair. "Got a surprise for you, Dean."

A surprise. Dean's not sure he wants to know what it is, considering that each new thing seems to be a worse experience than the last. He's shocked when, instead of carrying him upstairs, Castiel walks into the kitchen and over to the back door. It's wide open and Sam is waiting outside for them both on the patio.

It's a gorgeous day; hot and dry and so fucking sunny that his eyes ache. He looks around in awe, because it feels like years since he's actually been outside. Castiel laughs softly and sets him down on the wood, which is nice and warm under his bottom. Then he and Sam step back and give Dean some space, letting him examine the backyard in his own time.

Like he'd seen through the window, it's a pretty big yard. The patio takes up about a quarter of it, complete with umbrella, tables, chairs and a pretty spectacular barbeque. The grass has been recently mown, though it's a little on the longer side. There's a swing set and a large sandbox and, something he hasn't noticed before, a small garden tucked away in the corner. It looks like Sam or Castiel has been growing vegetables, fruit and even a handful of flowers. 

It kinda reminds him of his mother's garden, the one that used to take up nearly half the yard because every time they went to the store Mary found something else she wanted to plant. _Everything_ grew for her. Dean had tried to keep it going after she died, but within a couple of weeks everything had withered and after that the garden went untouched. Sometimes he wonders if the new family that had moved into the house replanted, or if it remains empty.

"Do you like it?" Sam asks finally, crouching down to Dean's level and drawing his attention away from the garden. "If there's something you want to play with that we don't have, you can ask. Maybe at some point we'll think about putting in a pool. Do you like swimming?"

Dean's throat tightens. He finds himself shaking his head fast. Too fast, because Sam's watching him closely and now there's a frown tugging at his lips.

"Do you know how to swim?" he asks.

This time Dean hesitates. Slowly, he shakes his head again. It's technically true. He tries not to think about the days spent at the local pool with the rest of his elementary school class and the note his teacher had sent home when he hadn't taken to the water the way she wanted him to. John hadn't liked being troubled with a note from a teacher, and the resulting shouting match hadn't endeared Dean to the thought of swimming. 

"We can teach you. Well," Sam amends, "I can teach you. Your papa's not a big fan of the water, either."

"I like it as long as my feet can touch the bottom, and Dean won't be playing in water any deeper than that," says Castiel. 

Sam just rolls his eyes and winks at Dean, like it's a secret between them, before he scoops Dean up and carries him down the three steps to the grass. The blades tickle the palms of Dean's hands when he's set down again. He takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with fresh air, and glances again at the garden. He starts to stand up.

Instantly Sam's hand is there, pressing him down. "No, baby."

Dean pauses, confused.

"Little ones crawl," Sam tells him. "At least for now."

Crawling. Of course. How did he not see that one coming? For a few seconds he seriously contemplates standing up anyway, wonders what would happen if he did. Would Sam tackle him? Force him back down to the ground? Or maybe they'd tie him up so he couldn't move at all, could only be carried, or they'd confine him to the crib where he's strapped down all the time. The thought makes a cold sweat break out on his face.

He carefully squirms around onto his hands and knees, not looking at either of them. The back of his neck burns hot with embarrassment as he begins moving forward, and he tries not to think about the image he must be presenting: diaper-clad bottom shifting back and forth with the movement of his hips as he crawls towards the garden. 

Up close it's even more beautiful, lush and healthy, and he plunks his butt down and reaches out to carefully graze one finger along the edge of a tomato vine. No fruit yet, but the leaves are a vibrant shade of green.

"I've worked on this garden for a long time," Castiel says, and Dean jumps. Castiel is standing right behind him. He leans down and unstraps the pacifier gag, gently pulling it out of Dean's mouth. "Sam takes care of it for me when I can't, but he's not very good at it. He waters them too much."

"I heard that," Sam calls from the patio.

Castiel ignores him. "I find gardening to be very peaceful. There is a certain pleasure in knowing that you are helping something to grow. Do you enjoy gardening, Dean?"

Dean licks his lips, hesitating, never sure how far this baby thing goes. "M-my mom," he whispers finally, dropping his gaze. It's been years since the ache over losing her has been this close to the surface, but it's like being forced to be a baby again just brings it all flooding back. 

"Your mom liked to garden?" Castiel kneels down beside him, apparently not caring that he's going to get grass stains on his jeans. He taps Dean lightly on the nose. "You could help me sometimes, if you want. Maybe then my plants won't suffer so much when I have to be away."

The tiny smile that crosses his face surprises even Dean.


	8. Chapter 8

He plays outside for hours, not in the sandbox or on the swing set because he still has principles, but in the grass, so reluctant to leave the warm sun and sweet-smelling fresh air that Sam acquiesces and uses the barbecue to grill steaks and corn on the cob for supper. He even produces a pan fully of freshly baked cinnamon rolls for dessert. It's not baby food by any stretch of the imagination, but his initial fear that they might not share goes unfounded. 

Right after they sit down, Sam cuts a small piece of steak up into bite-sized pieces and scrapes some corn off the cob. They take turns feeding him and Dean gobbles it down, not even minding that instead of a beer he gets juice in a bottle. At least they let him hold the bottle, even if the mitts do it make it difficult.

They eat on the grass, on a little blanket that Castiel spreads out, and after demolishing a cinnamon roll and the last of his juice Dean feels content for the first time since he was kidnapped. His belly is rounded and he throws the bottle down carelessly, rolling over onto his side so as not to put undue pressure on his stomach, eyes heavily lidded. He doesn't even fuss during his bath, falling asleep before Castiel has finished putting a fresh diaper on. It's the most activity he's had in weeks.

He wakes up sometime during the night, disoriented. Most of the time he sleeps straight through and he figures it's because the bottle they usually give him before bedtime is spiked, but he didn't get one last night because he fell asleep too early. Now he's laying on his back, arms wrapped around his belly, and it only takes a moment for him to realize that's what woke him up. 

His stomach aches, but not in the way that means he's hungry, and his head hurts with a dull, pounding ache right behind his eyes. He huffs a little, drawing his knees up and huddling in, wondering if it's worth the effort of trying to go back to sleep. If he weren't trapped in the crib, he'd get up and try to find some medication. Well, no. If he weren't trapped, he'd get outta here. 

It's really only then that his position and freedom of movement dawns on him. He's not tied down. 

Dean sits up so fast the room spins. He ignores it, bracing a hand against the side of the crib until he can clamber unsteadily to his feet. The bars are fairly high and the mechanism to unlock them is out of his reach - not that he would be able to unlatch it anyway, with the mitts - but that doesn't stop him from grabbing the top and hauling himself up, panting for breath as his muscles strain under the effort of heaving his weight up and over. He still doesn't get how Sam and Castiel can lift him so effortlessly.

He makes it, though, and feels flushed with victory as he swings his legs down and then he's standing, free. The urge to laugh sweeps over him but he tamps down, biting his lip to keep quiet as he creeps silently over to the door. Down the stairs, he's thinking, right down and then he doesn't care what he'll have to do. Cut the mitts off, chuck a chair through the goddamn window, burn the fucking house down, one way or another he's escaping.

The bright flash of light from the hallway shocks him to a stop, makes the throb in his head pound for an agonizing few seconds. He puts a hand to the side of his head instinctively, willing the pain to stop, and nearly misses the familiar voice that says, "Dean?"

Squinting, he looks up. It's Castiel, wearing a robe and a disapproving frown, and a flicker of panic shoots through him as Castiel crosses his arms. That's exactly the kinda expression John used to wear right before he got really pissed. It didn't bode well then and he doesn't think it will now.

"What are you doing up? How did you get out of your crib?" Castiel demands, and his voice is so loud that Dean winces, momentarily distracted from his fear. Wow, yeah, he's never appreciated how deep and gravelly Castiel's voice really is. 

Castiel keeps frowning at him, then suddenly turns towards the steps and calls out, "Sam!"

His window for escape is closing. Dean can see it even though he can't do anything about it, and by the time Sam gets to the top of the stairs thirty seconds later he knows it's gone completely. He curses himself internally for not listening before he opened the door, for not realizing that it's not nearly as late as he thought that it was. Castiel and Sam seem to be night owls for all that they get up as early as Dean does. 

"Whoa, hey," Sam says when he spots Dean, also too loud, and doesn't anyone in this house know how to whisper? 

"Something's wrong," Castiel says, a little quieter, like he knows what Dean is thinking. Sam's beside him in an instant and Dean flinches away automatically, stopped from going too far by an arm around his waist and a gentle hand to his forehead. The fingers are cool and comforting and he leans into them without thinking.

"He's got a bit of a fever, I think," says Sam after a moment, sounding concerned. "Overdid it today, maybe." He slides his hand up, combing through Dean's hair, and it's not the way Castiel does it but the pressure still feels pretty good. 

"Or there's a reason he's been so quiet," Castiel says, shooting Sam a pointed look.

"Babies get sick, Cas, it happens." But in spite of that Sam still sounds worried, and he hefts Dean into his arms with ease and carries him down the stairs. It's just as bright, but Castiel goes around turning some of the lights off and that helps a little. He still curls up when Sam sets him down on the couch, hiding his face in the cushions.

He's missed his chance and it only makes him feel even worse. 

Castiel sits beside him and leans over, wrapping an arm around Dean's shoulders. At first it feels like it might be an offer of comfort and he actually considers leaning into it, but when Sam's hands pull his diaper down... not so much, it's more like a betrayal. Dean lets out a furious yelp and tries to sit up, intending to pull away. But the arm across his back keeps him pinned easily as Sam separates his buttocks and presses something cold and slick against his asshole.

"Stop!" Dean cries out, panicked, all of his thoughts about sex and rape rushing back as the cold thing starts to slide inside him despite his clenched muscles. Those fears had gradually tapered off as the days went by and neither of them touched him like that, but now... he struggles, fighting to get away from the pressure, to get out from under the heavy weight holding him down, barely aware of the pleading words spilling out of his mouth.

" _Dean_ ," Castiel says, gripping his face, forcing Dean to look into his eyes. He stills, panting like a frightened animal when Sam’s free hand comes down on his hip to help hold him down, and Castiel goes on, "It's okay. Sam's just taking your temperature. Shh, we're not going to hurt you. We would _never_ hurt you."

Dean whimpers as the pressure stops, but whatever’s inside him – a thermometer, he now realizes – remains there, held in place by Sam. Castiel shushes him and shifts closer, easing up on the restraining hold and gathering him into a loose embrace. He feels like he should pull away, reject the paltry offering for what it is, but he can’t bring himself to. He fists his hands in Castiel’s shirt as best he can with the mitts and buries his face in Castiel’s shoulder, shivering. 

In some ways, he almost wishes that they _would_ touch him like that. Or make him touch them, or perform in videos, or whatever other depraved things they might want. Anything. He thinks it would all be easier to deal with than this twisted idea of caring that he can’t wrap his mind around no matter how hard he tries.

It seems to take forever before Sam gently pulls the thermometer out, leaving him feeling weirdly open and loose. “Just over a hundred,” Sam says, running a soothing hand down Dean’s sweaty back. “Poor baby, you must feel hot and uncomfortable.”

“Do we have Tylenol, Sam?”

“I’ll get some.”

The couch shifts as Sam gets up. Castiel reaches around and pulls Dean’s diaper back up, smoothing the straps back into place. “You’ll feel better in a little while,” he murmurs into Dean’s ear.

Dean knows he won’t feel better until he’s outta here, but there’s no point in saying as much. He keeps his face hidden until Sam comes back with the Tylenol and a bottle of water. The round white pills are familiar, at least, and he swallows two of them without a fuss. Sam sits down in the free spot and wraps an arm around his shoulders, guiding the bottle to his mouth. He drinks a little, but the feel of the water running down his throat makes him nauseous and he turns his head away.

“Not in the mood?” Sam asks sympathetically, rubbing a hand up and down his back again. He’s propped up on Castiel now, practically sitting in Sam’s lap. It shouldn’t be a lot more comfortable than the crib. It is, though, especially when Castiel begins rubbing his belly to ease the queasiness.

He tries not to think about the last time he got sick, how he’d holed up in his pitiful room by himself and huddled underneath the covers on his bed to wait the fever out. There had been no money for meds. In fact, after missing two days of work because he couldn’t stand straight never mind walk, he’d almost been kicked out by his landlord for not being able to make rent on time.

They’re just so _worried_ and the concern feels genuine, not faked. It’s confusing. John never acted like this when he was sick as a kid. Dean hasn’t been fussed over like this since his mother died. No, with his father he was lucky to have a bottle of children’s Tylenol and some orange juice around. 

“Shh,” Sam whispers, and like magic he produces the blue elephant. Dean latches on, pulling the stuffed toy into his arms. Castiel presses the pacifier to his mouth and he accepts it, already knowing there’s no point in fighting because when they want him gagged they don’t care what he thinks. He shifts it around with his tongue until it’s comfortable, suckling automatically on the rubber teat, the motion rhythmic and tiring.

It never occurs to him that there are no straps attached.


	9. Chapter 9

The ugly, clingy feeling of sickness persists into the next day. His head aches no matter how regularly he's given Tylenol and his stomach churns at the sight of food. He spends most of the day curled up on the couch with Castiel and his elephant, drifting in and out of a hazy, ill-resting sleep. It helps when Castiel strokes his head, the gentle pressure of his fingers against Dean’s scalp working to alleviate some of the discomfort. 

Towards midday, he becomes aware of the pressing need developing in his abdomen. It’s familiar by now, and he typically holds back until he falls asleep and his body lets go without his knowledge. Or until Sam and Castiel catch on and force him to go. But he’s not tired right now. Castiel’s got the television on and they’re watching some kinda talk show. He wiggles a little, not wanting to slide out from under the heavy, comforting arm that's wrapped around his shoulders even if he did have the choice about where he wants to piss.

Castiel combs fingers through his hair absently, not removing his eyes from the screen. Dean sucks in a deep breath as the need slowly builds. He’s heard multiple times now that it’s not good for him to hold it for so long, and that’s why they force him to go when they figure it out. A hand against his belly in just the right spot usually takes away his say in the matter. He hasn’t pissed himself without fighting about it yet, intended to be long gone before that ever became an issue. 

His head pounds. He closes his eyes. The thought of the fight and the inevitable tears that will like as not follow once Castiel notices, both of which will only serve to make his headache worse, are unbearable. He tightens his grip on the elephant and makes the conscious decision to relax the muscles of his lower body. He tells himself that it will only be this once, that he’ll never do it again, and that in the future he’ll fight them every fucking time.

It still takes a bit because he’s tense and humiliated to be pissing himself right out in the open, but eventually his body catches up and the warm flow begins. The diaper between his thighs quickly grows heavy and wet, but there’s no denying the rush of relief that flashes through him as he fills it. He sits there for a couple of minutes, watching the television without really seeing it, not having realized how uncomfortable he’d been until it’s over. Even his head feels a little better.

Except now his diaper is starting to get cold. He squirms again.

“Dean?” Castiel turns his head to look at him. “What’s wrong? Does your head hurt?”

Dean shakes his head and squirms again. He’s not wearing the pacifier gag, but he can’t bring himself to say it. Castiel studies his face for only a moment before comprehension dawns, his eyes widening in surprise. The arm around Dean’s shoulders slides down, checking his diaper, and the resulting look of pride when Castiel realizes what happened is unmistakable. Dean flushes and drops his gaze, embarrassment warring with something he’s afraid to acknowledge.

“It’s okay,” Castiel murmurs softly. “You’re so good for us, Dean. So very good.”

He blushes harder as Castiel gets up, coming back a minute later with the diaper bag that they keep downstairs. He spreads a thick blanket out on the floor and helps Dean to lay down on it. Dean stares up at the ceiling, his head spinning even from that little amount of movement, and doesn’t protest his diaper being stripped off. The cold sensation of the baby wipes is, much as he hates to admit it, familiar now, and at least it means he’s not stuck sitting in his own piss.

Castiel sprinkles baby powder onto his genitals and then straps a new diaper into place. He lightly pats Dean’s belly and looks up at the window for a moment, listening, before he looks back down at Dean. “I know you don’t feel any better, but don’t worry. We have a special friend coming to visit and she knows all about medicine.”

His eyes fly open at that and he sits up halfway. “What –”

“Shh, Dean. It will be okay.”

It won’t be. Dean tries to picture being seen like this by someone else and can’t. His chest tightens at the thought, icy tendrils of panic seeping in. It’s one thing for him to be seen by Castiel and Sam, who were the perpetrators behind this whole situation in the first place, but someone new? A stranger? His hands start to shake and that’s when Castiel picks him up right off the floor, one warm hand rubbing Dean’s back as he orders Dean in a low, calm voice to match their breathing together.

Dean whimpers and buries his face in Castiel’s shoulder when he hears the door behind them open. He’s only wearing a diaper and a t-shirt that’s baggy enough it probably belonged to Sam at some point, and the evidence of what just happened is spread out all over the floor. It wouldn’t take a genius to understand what the baby wipes, baby powder, blanket, and diaper bag plus the man wearing a diaper all mean. Humiliation crawls over his flesh, hot and prickling, and he curls in closer to Castiel in a vain effort to hide.

Sam says something quiet behind them, and then a woman says, “Hello there.”

She sounds sweet and kind. Dean doesn’t lift his head, but he can hear her approach and kneel down behind him and Castiel. Her hand brushes against the back of his neck and he shivers a little.

“You said he’s been sick for about a day now?” she says.

“That’s right,” Castiel says.

“Dean, can you look at me?”

He doesn’t want to. _God_ he doesn’t want to. But then she just sits there and waits, and he can feel the weight of her eyes on his back. Slowly, reluctantly, he turns his head just enough to take her in. She’s younger than he expected, probably about Sam’s age, and gorgeous with wide blue eyes. Her hair is long and curly and blonde and her smile is gentle and friendly, and she looks exactly like the kind of girl he might’ve tried to pick up at a bar. He swallows hard.

Her smile widens just a little. “Hi. My name is Jess. Your daddy told me that you’re not feeling very well. Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

Dean just stares at her in silence, but she doesn’t seem to mind. She leans back on her heels and reaches for the black bag she brought in with her. 

“Do you mean if I take your temperature?” she asks, and when he physically recoils and chokes a little, she’s quick to add, “I have a special thermometer than goes in your ear. It’s okay, I promise you won’t feel a thing. Just hold still for me and it won’t hurt a bit.” She holds it out, letting him see, and then edges closer. The metal tip sliding into his ear makes him shiver, but it’s infinitely better than the alternative.

Castiel rubs his back while they wait for the thermometer to finish. When it beeps, Jess takes it out and glances at the screen. She makes no comment, just sets it aside and takes out a stethoscope. She listens to Dean’s heart and lungs, then looks into his ears and at his mouth and throat. Her fingers probe at his neck and she peers into his eyes. Were it not for the fact that he’s in the middle of the living room, still straddling Castiel’s lap and clinging to the man, it would be a normal doctor’s appointment.

“I’d say you’ve gone and caught yourself a cold, little man,” she says finally. 

“Are you sure?” Sam says.

Jess rolls her eyes. “I’ve been a nurse for the past five years, Sam. I recognize the symptoms of a cold when I see it.” She stands up, punching Sam lightly in the shoulder. “I would suggest that you and Castiel take him outside a little more each day. He needs fresh air and movement. Being cooped up in the house all the time isn’t good for anyone. In the meantime, keep him quiet and if he complains of a headache Tylenol will help. A warm bath will soothe his muscles if he’s in pain and I’d stick with juice or water over the next couple of days, not milk.”

“Thank you, Jess,” Castiel says, sounding relieved, and his arms tighten around Dean.

“No problem, Cas,” Jess says, shooting Castiel a softer look. “I don’t mind. It’s common for new parents to freak out a little the first time their baby gets sick. If you notice him vomiting or his fever spikes or lasts for more than five days, you can give me another call. But I really think that he’ll be fine.”

Sam drops a hand onto Dean’s head. “Thanks Jess,” he echoes, and then adds sheepishly, “Sorry for waking you up so early.”

“No you’re not,” Jess mutters, amused, and gives him a quick hug. “Be good for your parents, little man.” She taps Dean lightly on the nose. He blinks at her and she smiles, gives him a wink. “Sam, walk me out, would you?”

“Sure.” Sam places a kiss on Dean’s forehead and then another onto Castiel’s mouth before he walks out of the room with Jess. The sound of their laughter drifts back and Castiel sighs, but when Dean turns to look at him he’s smiling.

“How about some orange juice and a couple of Tylenol?”


	10. Chapter 10

The girl in his dream has no face and really, no identifiable features. She’s got silky hair of an unknown color and she smells like vanilla and sweat, and she's warm and giving where he leans against her. He presses his face into the softness of her breasts and thrusts harder, the sound of his moans mingling with the sweetness of her cries. Her fingernails dig in and then drag down his back and the unexpected, sharp pain is enough to make his body stiffen with orgasm.

As the lingering aftershocks of pleasure slide through him, Dean opens his eyes and stares blearily at the bars of his crib. His mind is blank, body languid with a sense of relaxation the likes of which he hasn’t felt in months. It’s been a long time since he had sex with anyone, and as much as he’d like to lay the blame for that at Castiel's and Sam's feet it’s really not their fault. For one thing picking a girl up at a bar becomes infinitely more difficult when you don’t have a cent to spare, never mind five bucks to drop on a beer.

He pushes those thoughts away with effort and wriggles, a little uncomfortable now that his come is starting to dry, and rolls over on his back with effort. After two days he’s finally beginning to get over his cold, but the tiredness and headaches have lingered. Tylenol helps but only if he takes it on a regular basis, and it’s been a while since his last dose. He stares at the ceiling for a while before accepting that sleep isn't coming back anytime soon.

He's bored, and so he lazily kicks out at the bars of his crib, the flat of his foot striking them with a satisfying _thud_.

It only takes a minute before his door opens and Sam walks in. “You’re energetic this morning,” he says, switching on the lamp that now stands in the corner of the room. It casts a softer light that’s a little easier on Dean’s eyes and illuminates Sam’s face as he approaches.

That’s how Dean knows something is wrong. It’s written there in the lines of Sam’s forehead, the way his mouth is pinched tightly even though he attempts a smile and how he avoids meeting Dean’s eyes. He still picks Dean up carefully, carrying him over to the changing table. As he’s placed on his back, a little flicker of panic flutters through him. Sam and Castiel have a baby monitor in the room so that they know when he’s awake. What if they heard him moaning? What if they’re angry about it?

“Dean, stop it,” Sam says impatiently when he squirms, easily pinning his legs to the table. He fiddles with the diaper and finally manages to get it off. There’s no discernable change to his expression when he looks at the mess that Dean’s made, and that does little to ease the apprehension growing in Dean’s belly. He holds his breath. So far nothing about this baby thing has been permanent, but this… if they choose to do something about it, this very well could be and just the idea is _terrifying_.

Sam’s eyes finally flick up to meet his and he noticeably softens at whatever’s written across Dean’s face. He pulls the diaper out from under Dean and balls it up. “Did you know it’s very common for babies to masturbate?” he says casually, like it’s an interesting fact he’d share with anyone. “They do it because it feels good, and there’s really nothing wrong with that as long as it’s kept private.”

Dean looks at him sideways, wondering if Sam really just implied that he might whip his dick out in front of people he doesn’t know. It’s like he has no concept of the fact that Dean has just spent the last god knows how long trying to keep his dick hidden from everyone, including the man standing over him. Sam appears to take his silence as agreement because he resumes cleaning Dean up just like he normally would, like there’s no difference between piss and come.

“There, all clean.” But instead of scooping Dean up, Sam sighs and leans against the table. He looks at Dean for a moment and then forces a smile. “Come on, baby.”

A little puzzled, Dean wraps his arms around Sam’s neck as he’s lifted. They leave the nursery – bedroom – and walk down the steps to the main floor. For the first time Dean realizes that it’s early. Like, really early. As in the sun isn’t even up yet. He blinks at the windows, a little surprised that Sam hadn’t put him back to bed the way they normally do on the rare occasion Dean wakes up in the middle of the night. And for that matter, Sam is fully dressed in jeans and a t-shirt instead of the boxers he favors sleeping in.

He doesn’t understand until he takes in the duffel bag at the front door and the figure bending over it. Castiel is almost unrecognizable. Since the day Dean was brought here, he’s only ever seen both him and Sam in jeans and t-shirts and, in Sam's case, a lot of plaid. But this version of Castiel is wearing a suit that could’ve easily cost a couple months in rent, and that’s not even taking into consideration his soft leather shoes, platinum watch or cufflinks. His hair is artfully slicked back and his blue eyes look even bigger than normal thanks to the matching blue tie.

But more than that, it’s the expression he has on his face. Cold, detached almost, and for a split second when he looks at Sam and Dean like he doesn’t even know them, Dean feels afraid. Right away, though, his fear fades when Castiel smiles and reaches out for Dean. He still hesitates a little, worried about mussing that impeccable suit, but Sam passes him over willingly enough. That’s when Dean discovers that Castiel even _smells_ different. Gone is the lingering smell of the garden and the Dove soap he usually uses; he must have bathed with something different recently and Dean doesn’t like it.

“It’s okay,” Castiel says gently, bouncing him a little like he's an upset toddler. “Papa has to leave for just a little while. I won’t be gone long, but there’s something that I need to take care of.”

“Why?” Dean doesn’t mean to whine, but somehow it comes out sounding that way. There’s two parts of him at war right now. Part of him doesn’t want Castiel to leave, wants him to take off the stupid suit and go back to the way he was before. But the other part of him is rejoicing at the fact that now there will only be Sam to slip past, which makes his chances of escape infinitely better. The warring emotions are confusing and he drops his head, hiding his face.

“Because one of Daddy’s workers screwed up and I need to take care of it,” Castiel says after a brief pause. 

“He won’t be gone long, Dean, I promise.” Sam sounds more upset about this than Castiel. He puts a hand on Dean’s back, stepping closer. It’s not necessary to look up to know they’re now kissing over his head. Dean makes a face against Castiel's chest and squirms impatiently between them, and Sam steps back with a low laugh. He takes Dean back and that leaves Castiel free to tip Dean's chin up so that their eyes meet.

“You take care of the garden and be good for your Daddy, Dean,” he says, and then he leans in and carefully kisses Dean on the forehead. He does it a little awkwardly, like even though he’s done it before he’s still not entirely certain of the mechanics, and Dean can feel his eyes getting a little wet. Jesus. He blinks rapidly, refusing to cry over something that he should be thrilled about.

“We’ll be fine. You just focus on being careful,” says Sam, shifting Dean to one hip and reaching into his pocket and coming up with a pacifier, which he pushes into Dean’s mouth. It’s a distraction from the burn in his eyes, so Dean allows it.

Castiel’s smile is a little cocky. “It’s no different than any other time, Sam. You know I’m the best at what I do and that’s why you decided to send me in the first place. Besides, what would Ruby say if she knew how worried you were?”

“I don’t care,” Sam mutters petulantly, and Castiel chuckles.

“You say that now.” He leans in, ghosting another kiss across Sam’s lips, then runs his hand across the top of Dean’s head. Stepping back, he stoops down to pick up the duffel bag and hefts it over his shoulder. “Garth and Charlie are waiting for me. I have to go. Love you both.”

“Love you too,” Sam says, his hands tightening around Dean. Through the window, Dean can see that Castiel is walking down the steps and over to a car he’s never seen before. He puts his bag in the backseat with a redheaded woman and then gets in the front next to a young guy. As soon as Castiel’s got the door shut, the car drives away.


	11. Chapter 11

The house feels weird without Castiel. It’s too quiet and the weird feeling only gets worse when Sam doesn’t take him back to bed, just starts off their day a lot earlier than normal, so that by late afternoon Dean is tired and cranky and fed up. He whines when Sam tries to feed him an early dinner and twists away, thumping his legs against the chair and floor, then slumps sulkily over the plastic tray of his high chair and stares at Sam with accusing eyes. Sam sighs and sets the food – bite sized pieces of hot dog – aside. He looks as tired as Dean feels.

“I know you miss your papa,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “Believe me, Dean, if there was any other person who could do what Cas does… But he’s the best, and every once in a while you run into a situation where you _need_ the best whether you like it or not. I promise that he won’t be gone long. A few days at the most.”

Dean just keeps staring at him, lethargy making his eyes heavy. He doesn’t know why he feels so out of sorts, to be honest, but he does. It’s like the whole world is a little bit off kilter now. And as much as he’d like to blame it on the fact that he still feels a little shitty from his cold, he doesn’t think that’s it. At least, not entirely. Because no matter how hard he tries to push aside the thought that he wants a hug and story time with Castiel more than anything, it stubbornly keeps coming back.

Sam makes a frustrated sound and gives up on their dinner, dumping the dishes in the sink and scooping Dean out of the chair. He carries Dean upstairs to the bathroom and runs the water in the tub, adding bubbles mechanically. Dean sits placidly on the rug, watching this. Typically it’s Sam or the both of them who gives him a bath, so at least this doesn’t feel too off – though it’s strange to be getting a bath at just after five in the evening. He doesn’t fight as Sam strips him down and lifts him into the warm water.

The hands that touch his flesh are gentle and large, encompassing a feeling of safety that Dean tries not to examine too closely. Sam kneels down and squeezes some lightly scented soap out onto a facecloth, then begins with rubbing it across his back in big circles. Dean leans into the feeling. Baths are so much better than a shower, he's discovered. He thinks that even after he escapes, he might continue to indulge every once in a while. Once he can afford an apartment that has a tub, that is.

“I’m sorry, baby,” Sam says after a long silence, and Dean chances a glance up at him. Sam’s hair is damp with sweat and humidity, sticking to his face in clumps. “You kinda got pulled into the middle of this and that’s not fair to you.”

He keeps scrubbing for a couple of minutes, face creased with misery as he slides the cloth down Dean's leg, before he adds, “I’m not very smart sometimes. Not really, not like Cas. People can say what they want about him, but I’m the luckiest son of a bitch ever and... and sometimes when I think about the fact that I almost ruined that with someone who isn't worth even half of him, I wanna slap myself.” He huffs a laugh and scoops some water up, pouring it across Dean’s shoulders.

And yeah, Dean’s heard this story before. He can fill in the blanks, guess what happened, if only because he’s heard John and Kate screaming at each other often enough to recognize the same old tune. He blinks up at Sam, who seems to take that as a request to continue.

“I know we told you that we really wanted a kid. What you don’t know is that you almost had an older brother. We were so close to adopting, Dean. So close.” Sam bites his lip, twisting the facecloth between his fingers. “Samandriel was such a beautiful baby and Cas fell in love so _fast_. It almost killed him when Samandriel’s birth mom decided she wanted him after all.

“There wasn’t anything I could do. Bullshit, right? Everything I am capable of and that was the one thing I couldn’t change, though it wasn’t for lack of trying. I offered her everything, but she had her heart set on trying to raise him alone. And I know that Cas didn’t blame me… he’s not like that. I guess I blamed myself.” His pace slows, the facecloth dropping into the water. Dean curls his knees up, twisting to watch him more closely, curious now. 

“That’s not an excuse, though. I know that. It was so fucking stupid because it didn’t even mean anything, we were just… we were falling apart and I couldn’t fix it, nothing could, not until we found you.”

“Me?” Dean repeats before he can stop himself, soft and startled. He’s been the cause of so many fights in the past that he doesn’t think he could name them all if he tried, but he can’t ever remember a time when he’d been the solution.

“Yeah, you. The second he saw you, you were the only thing that Cas could talk about. I think he fell in love with you faster than anyone else, even Samandriel.” Sam smiles a little, finally, and when he puts his hand on Dean’s head the touch feels reverent. “Preparing the nursery for you gave him a purpose again. And having you here… he’s even interested in gardening and going out on missions again, the way he used to be. You’re the best thing that ever happened to us, baby boy.”

Dean is speechless. Couldn’t speak even if he wanted to. He’s not shocked that Sam apparently cheated on Castiel, because he’s old enough to know how that goes. But he doesn’t know what to do with this. Because all of a sudden this isn’t just about a couple of weird perverts kidnapping a guy and making him act like their baby. It’s got meaning behind it, purpose and love and a shitload of feelings, and that shakes the foundations of the world Dean’s built up for himself to the core.

He starts to shiver and Sam jerks, realizing that the bath water has grown cool. He mutters apologies as he lets it drain, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around Dean’s body. He’s so very tender that Dean can’t help but savor it. He rubs the excess water out of Dean’s hair and brushes it, taking care to dry him as much as possible, then carefully shaves his face of stubble before putting on a fresh diaper. 

"How does an early night sound?" he says, patting Dean on the bottom, like the past twenty minutes never happened. He lifts Dean into his arms and carries him, not into the nursery, but into the bedroom that Sam and Castiel share. Dean's never been in there before. 

It's a much larger room than he expected, done up in warm, welcoming shades of red and bronze. There's two enormous bookcases on either side, both of which are completely stuffed with books. Two nightstands frame the bed, which is easily king-sized or maybe specially made to be even bigger. Sam sets him down on the bed and it gives beneath his weight, all soft support. Dean sinks back, amazed. He'd guessed that Sam and Castiel had money, but this room with its simple but exquisite comfort suggests that the two of them have a lot.

Sam goes into the connected bathroom, leaving the door partly open, and Dean squirms around on the bed until he's up near the head. The pillows are incredibly soft and smell of Castiel and his eyes slide shut immediately. It takes every ounce of willpower he possesses to not fall asleep. He listens to the sounds of Sam getting ready for bed, keeping his breathing slow and calm, deliberately not thinking about everything Sam just told him. He focuses on staying awake.

It still feels like it takes forever before Sam comes out of the bathroom and shuts the lights off. He climbs into the other side of the bed and turns the television on, and Dean keeps very still and very quiet as the sounds of Dr. Sexy flow through the room. Determination builds in him, gives him the strength to keep from just giving in, particularly when it seems as though Sam is ready to watch TV for a couple of hours before he goes to sleep.

Finally, though, Dean hears a familiar sound. The sound of a snore. He forces his tired eyelids open, carefully looking over his shoulder. Sam's sprawled on his back, head tipped back, bone rattling snores escaping the depths of his chest with every exhale. Dean keeps an eye on him as he slowly sits up, sliding off the bed. His legs tremble when he stands up but he firms his resolve, pausing just long enough to grab a pair of jeans out of the hamper before he slips out the door.


	12. Chapter 12

Behind him the bedroom remains quiet and there are no other sounds in the house, but Dean feels like he's on pins and needles as he slowly creeps down the stairs. The rooms look strange with all of the lights off, even though sunlight is pouring in through the windows and casting comforting, golden pools on the floor. He hardly dares to breathe as he sidles towards the front door and casts an eye over the locks.

Surprisingly, they're nothing special. Two deadbolts, both of which are easy enough to push up - though they sound like gunshots in the silence and he cringes. The hardest part is getting his hands around the knob. The mitts make it nearly impossible because they're so large and bulky, but he's determined. It takes several minutes of experimenting before he finally jams his right hand in behind the knob at a painful angle and presses his left against it for extra leverage, twisting and pulling. He catches the door with his foot to keep it from shutting again and wrenches his hand free, wincing.

It's early enough in the evening for it to still be plenty light out and Dean freezes on the door step, suddenly painfully conscious of the fact that he's clad in only a diaper, an overly large t-shirt and arm mitts. He lets the door fall shut behind him and swallows hard. It's just two steps down to the brick walkway and then straight across the grass to freedom. The wide open road beckons him, promising safety as long as he's willing to walk for it, so close that he can almost taste it.

So why does he hesitate? Why does a part of him feel like turning around and going right back up the stairs to get back in bed? There's no reason why the thought of escaping should make him want to sit down on the step and cry loudly until Sam realizes what's going on and comes to fetch him. Why his eyes would dart towards the driveway in the hopes that the car that took Castiel away will magically appear and drop the man off. Why his throat should feel tight and his hands should tremble when he forces his body to move.

This is what he's been wanting and waiting for, his only chance. He grits his teeth against the powerful urge to go back and forces himself to step down onto the brick, which is surprisingly warm under his feet. He doesn't turn back to look at the house - it would be too easy to go back, if he does - but keeps moving, knowing that the first thing he has to do is get the mitts off. How he's going to do that remains a mystery right up until he reaches the end of the street and spots the house on the far corner. It looks like a junk heap, the old and rusting cars spoiling the picturesque quality of the neighborhood, but none of that matters once Dean catches sight of the barbed wire fence.

He pushes as many thoughts of Sam and Castiel out of his head as he can and makes his way to the house as quickly and stealthily as possible. A couple sections of the fence, the ones back from the road and mostly hidden by brush, have either been cut or are rotting with age and that's exactly what he needs. Somewhere on the other side of the fence, he hears a dog start barking as he crouches down. A quick glance of the yard shows that there's no sign of any animals, and he's pretty sure he can't be seen from the road. He goes to work.

He fiddles with the wires for a minute, fumbling to get the bulky mitt wrapped around one, and finally manages to drag a particularly sharp piece across his arm. He ignores the sting as it slips and slices into his flesh in multiple places, his aim made even clumsier thanks to the awkwardness of the mitt. His whole focus is on catching the wire against the strap of the mitt and pulling up the velcro until it's been raised high enough that he can snag it with the other mitt and yank it off completely.

His arm is covered in blood by the time his plan actually works, but Dean doesn't care. He rips the hated mitts off first one arm and then the other and chucks them as far away as he can. Then he stares in wonder at his hands, flexing his fingers slowly. They're wrinkled from how much he's been sweating and it feels amazing to have his hands exposed to air again. The first thing he does with his newfound dexterity is haul on the jeans he stole from Sam. Of course they're much too long and he has to hold them up to keep them from sliding right back down, but it's still clothing and it's the most covered up he's been in weeks.

"Thank god," he whispers, closing his eyes briefly and leaning against the fence. His arm burns like crazy and he'll need to find something to clean up the blood before anyone else sees him because the last thing he needs is for the police to be called, but for the moment all he can think about is the fact that he's free.

He's free. No more crib, no more diaper changes, no more bottles. No more bath time. No more high chair or stupid little baby toys. No more being carried or having a thermometer shoved up his butt, no more pacifier or arm mitts.

An annoying little voice in the back of his head chimes in, no more hugs. No more curling up next to Castiel on the couch for a nap. No more of Castiel's hand in his hair while Castiel reads him a story. No more cooking with Sam or falling asleep on Sam's lap while cuddling his elephant. No more home-cooked meals and not having to worry about shelter or food, no more people who actually give a shit whether he wakes up in the morning and who care for him when he's ill.

Damn. Dean scowls, unconsciously clenching his hands into fists. It's like the two of them have snuck into his head and he hates that. He has to get away for good. He doesn't know where he's gonna go: not the police, because he has no interest in telling anyone about the humiliation he's had to live through, and certainly not back to his shitty apartment. Chances are, someone else is already living there considering that his rent checks would've stopped going to his landlord once his bank account emptied out.

A homeless shelter, then. He'll live on the fucking street if he has to. God knows he's done it before, though there's no part of him that relishes the thought of going back. It will be impossibly hard. He takes a deep breath and tries not to think about that either, only then becoming aware of the building pain in his arm. He relaxes the muscles slowly, grimacing when the pain doesn't go away, and starts to turn around.

There's the faint but recognizeable sound of a gun being cocked behind him. 

"Don't even think about it, boy."

Dean freezes, automatically lifting his right hand to prove that he's weaponless. He has to keep hold of his jeans with his left. Panic clenches in his throat and the instinctive reaction that overwhelms him is to duck down, curl into a warm body and hide, only there's no one to hide behind. He flounders for a few seconds, breath stuttering, before the stern voice behind him speaks again.

"Turn around slow and explain to me what the hell you were doing in my yard."

"Wasn't in your yard," Dean mumbles, the words feeling thick and heavy on his tongue, coming out slurred like he can't quite remember how to properly form them. 

"Just because the fence ends doesn't mean my property does. Now turn around."

He obeys, head tipped towards the ground, looking up with his eyes only. The man standing in front of him is kinda familiar, the way a distant uncle is at a reunion after you haven't seen them in a long time. He's wearing a baseball cap over graying hair, a vest over a plaid shirt and jeans with heavy work boots. The big black dog at his side is seated, but the way he looks at Dean suggests he's only a word away from tearing into flesh. Dean curls up a little, hunching his shoulders, wondering if he's finally lost his mind because this is too much of a coincidence.

"What's your name?" the guy barks.

"Dean."

"Dean what?"

"Winchester," he whispers, and when that provokes a reaction, the guy's eyes widening and the gun falling a few inches, he adds hesitantly, "B-Bobby?"


	13. Chapter 13

Bobby Singer was John's best friend way back when Dean was just a kid. And by best friend, he means that Bobby was one of very few people that John actually tolerated having around and who, in return, didn't want to kick John to the curb the first time he drank a little too much and got mean. Mostly because Bobby wasn’t afraid to punch back.

After Dean's mom died, he and his dad had traveled around the US for a long time before they ended up in the small town of Sioux Falls for about three years - three of the best years of Dean's life. He'd spent about half his time while there living at Bobby's house because John wasn't above up and dumping him there while he skipped town for a while. It wasn't until later that Dean realized this was when his dad had met Kate Milligan, and that he was using Bobby as free childcare to keep Dean outta the way while John took a second chance at the American dream.

But all that changed shortly after Dean turned nine, when John came home and tossed him in the back of the Impala and they left Sioux Falls without a word. He's still not sure what all John said to Bobby at the time, but Dean hasn't seen or spoken to the man since they left that day. John had ordered him not to call Bobby's number and when his dad told him to do something, Dean did - or didn't do - it because it was just easier. And then by the time he might've actually felt brave enough to contact Bobby against his dad's wishes, too much time had gone by and he figured Bobby wouldn't want to hear from him.

All in all it's been a dozen years and he can't believe that Bobby looks the same as he did back then, a grey hair or two notwithstanding. The ground feels like it's moving underneath his feet and it takes him a few seconds to realize it's because he's the one swaying, still doesn't fully grasp it until a strong arm slings itself around his waist and steadies him. 

"Come on, boy," Bobby grunts in his ear, half carrying half pushing Dean forward. It says a lot, more than Dean wants it to, that he wants to turn into Bobby's warmth and wrap his arms around the man's neck and just let himself be carried. He beats the urge down with difficulty, forcing his legs to move in unison with Bobby's.

They walk almost all the way to the road before turning right, cutting across the yard towards the house that sits square in the middle of all the rusting cars. It's smaller than the house in Sioux Falls, but it also doesn't look as run down. Bobby practically lifts him up the steps, elbowing the door open, and lets the door slam in the dog's face as he drops Dean into one of the seats at the kitchen table. Dean's legs are shaking and he stares blindly at the empty spot in front of him, wondering why it feels so wrong to not have a plastic tray being strapped into place.

Bobby sets his gun down and leaves the room for a moment, comes back carrying a familiar first aid kit that looks like it hasn't been opened since the last time Dean skinned his knees. He fills a bowl with water and sets it all on the table. He takes hold of Dean's arm with a surprising amount of gentleness and opens the kit, pulling out a clean wipe. When he starts to clean away the blood it burns, and Dean sucks in a sharp breath, eyes stinging with tears before he can stop them.

To his credit, if Bobby notices the reaction - and he must, because the man misses nothing - he doesn't say anything to bring attention to it. He just washes all of the blood away and then examines the angry red slashes in silence, brow furrowed. "I don't think you'll need stitches, but you've certainly done a number on yourself. The hell were you doing?"

Dean just shakes his head, not sure that he would be capable of speech right now. He feels disoriented, his head spinning and every muscle in his body aching. Part of him wants to spill the story to Bobby and beg for help, but another part wants to press his face into Bobby's shoulder and just wait for the whole situation to be fixed. His breath hitches, the urge to cry a building pressure in his throat. He blinks rapidly.

"Idjit," Bobby sighs into the silence, carefully smoothing a soothing cream onto the worst of the damage before he wraps most of Dean's arm up in clean white bandages. "You gotta start being more careful. That's gonna hurt for a while."

He nods, licking his lips. Bobby keeps looking at him like he's expecting Dean to speak and honestly, he doesn't want to. If he had his pacifier, he wouldn't have to -

No. Dean shuts his eyes, turning his face away. He doesn't want his pacifier or any of that bullshit, not anymore. Castiel and Sam have messed up his head and now, with this unexpected blast from the past, it's just made things worse. He needs a little bit of time to wrap his head around the fact that help has been living just down the street the whole time he was captured. He takes several slow, deep breaths, fighting against the panic crackling in his chest.

Bobby backs off, giving him space, and pours him a glass of water. Dean slops water down his front when he puts the glass to his lips, his hands are shaking so badly, because it's been ages since he last drank from a glass and for a moment all he wants is for the glass to be taken from him and a bottle be given in its place -

"Bathroom," he rasps, surprised by how jagged and rough his voice sounds. It's all broken like he's about to start crying at any moment.

"Down the hall to the right," Bobby says, giving him a worried look, and Dean stumbles when he stands up. As he walks out of the room, he hears Bobby mutter something behind him about Dean's daddy.

Well, it's not as though the both of them don't have a lot to curse John about. It's always hurt a little that Bobby didn't fight for him the way Dean wanted him to, didn't try to keep Dean with him, just let John take him away. Those years at Bobby's house were the best. Bobby never yelled, never hit, never made him feel stupid. He was amazingly patient when it came to helping with schoolwork and always had time when Dean wanted to throw a ball around. He had supper on the table every night and money for lunch every day.

He would've stayed with Bobby, given the chance, but he'd been a stupid kid at the time and he hadn't been offered the choice and he didn’t know how to ask. He can still remember being shoved into the car by John and having to leave most of his stuff behind because his dad was in such a hurry. Bobby had stood by, quiet and with the beginnings of a bruise on his right cheek, as John climbed into the driver's seat of the Impala and sped away.

Having the door to the bathroom closed behind him makes him feel a little more secure, though his skin still feels tight and itchy. He doesn't look into the mirror as he washes his hands in the sink. It takes a little bit of scrubbing to remove the dried blood from under his fingernails, but it's also something to concentrate on and he takes to it with a fervor. His fingers are red and raw by the time he judges himself sufficiently clean.

The only blood now is on his jeans from where he'd pulled them on. He lets go, letting the jeans slither down his hips and pool around his feet, and feels a fresh jolt. The diaper. He'd completely forgotten he was wearing it. It hadn't even occurred to him to take the hated thing off before he put the jeans on, and why hadn't it? Dean has gone commando before, and while it isn't how he typically prefers to dress it has to be better than wearing a fucking diaper. 

But he hadn't. He feels his breathing speeding up, his vision going blurry as the panic finally overwhelms him, sharp and hot and constricting. Standing there in Bobby's bathroom, the whole situation feels so damn surreal that he can't breathe. His hands are cold and shaking so badly he can't even unlock the door when someone knocks on it, can't do anything but stand there and fall apart.

It turns out that it doesn't matter, though. Sam has no problem with kicking the door down.


	14. Chapter 14

About 45 minutes. That’s how long Dean ends up having escaped for. 45 fucking minutes.

When the door splinters apart under the force of Sam’s kick, it takes Dean a few extra seconds to process what’s going on. He still can’t breathe, and the sudden feeling of exposure combined with the look of anger on Sam’s face doesn’t help. He stumbles back a few steps automatically and trips, feet still caught in the jeans around his ankles, and nearly tumbles backwards into the tub. He catches himself at the last second and instead sits down hard on the edge, still gasping for air and feeling dizzy and sick.

Sam comes into the room, which instantly feels about a hundred times too small, and crouches down in front of him. His angry expression has given away to concern as he reaches out to touch Dean. Dean flinches back so violently that he’s only saved from falling back by how close Sam is to his legs. Sam freezes instantly and sits back on his heels, holding his hands up as proof that he's not a threat.

“It’s okay, Dean,” he says quietly, soothingly. “I’m not going to hurt you. It’s okay. But you need to breathe. You’re hyperventilating and if you don’t stop you’re going to pass out. Come on, breathe in and out on my count. Breathe in, one, two, three…”

Dean shakes his head, fisting his shaking hands. He was _so close_. He wants to punch Sam and jump out the window, do whatever it takes to get back that little taste of freedom. But he doesn’t. He just sits there, listening to the sound of Sam’s soft voice slowly counting and telling him when to inhale and exhale. It seems to take forever before his breathing begins to regulate and the black spots stop flashing in front of his eyes as the panic recedes to a more manageable level – though it hovers in the back of his mind, waiting to pounce when his guard goes down.

“Good, that’s really good,” Sam praises, reaching up to run a hand through his hair. For the first time Dean sees that Sam’s hands are trembling too, but it’s a fact that he acknowledges on a distant level. He feels disconnected from everything, like he’s just a bystander and not a participant.

“You’re shivering,” Sam says suddenly, eyes dropping down in a quick scan over the rest of Dean's body, and then he twists around and calls out to Bobby. It takes a couple minutes for Bobby to come in carrying a sweater. Sam takes it from him and eyes Dean, clearly wondering how another attempt to reach out to him will go. Evidently he decides to take his chances because he moves, gently swinging the sweater around Dean’s shoulders. Dean flinches a little, but allows the sweater to remain and Sam's hands to rest briefly on his knees.

“Are you alright, Dean?” Bobby says, and, when Dean can only look at him, he turns a glare on Sam. “Look, you said you were gonna take care of him. This doesn’t look like _taking care_ to me.”

“We’re doing our best. The first few months are a difficult adjustment period for everyone,” Sam says through what sounds like gritted teeth, finally straightening up again. He hovers like he doesn't want to leave Dean. 

“Right,” Bobby says skeptically. “And that’s why he showed up half-dressed and with his arm scraped to hell. Because it’s a difficult adjustment period. Who the hell do you take me for, boy? That kid’s been through enough without you screwing him up even more.”

Dean shuts his eyes and shivers harder, not wanting to hear this, unable to stop the whimper that slips out. A hand immediately runs through his hair, combing the sweaty strands back from his face. He peeks and sees that Sam is looking down at him, and there’s so much worry and affection in his face that Dean’s vision goes all blurry again. His breath hitches for an entirely different reason and he can practically see the way Sam crumbles, scooping Dean up sweater and all. 

“Shit you scared me, baby boy,” he whispers into Dean’s ear. Dean hates the thought that Bobby is watching this, hates _himself_ for wrapping his arms around Sam’s neck and clinging for all he’s worth. He can’t stop shaking and now he can’t stop the tears from slipping down his cheeks either.

“I should take him home,” Sam says to Bobby.

There’s a thoughtful light in Bobby’s eyes now, but that doesn’t stop him from shaking his head. “Nope. I don’t care who you are or what you can do, you’re not taking that boy outta my house until I’m sure that he’s okay.”

Sam tenses a little and there’s a weird moment when he and Bobby stare at each other, communicating - or maybe threatening - silently on a level Dean can’t understand. Then Sam concedes with a nod, hefting Dean higher. “Fine. But can we at least get out of here? He’s still shivering.”

“Could be because he’s half naked,” Bobby mutters, but he moves aside and lets Sam carry Dean out of the bathroom. Dean rests his head on Sam’s shoulder, automatically hiding his face in the comfortable curve of Sam’s collarbone and throat. He doesn’t let go even when Sam sits down, neatly arranging Dean on his lap so that they’re both comfortable. 

He rubs Dean’s back and murmurs to him, words that Dean doesn’t really listen to but which are comforting nevertheless. It takes a while before Sam can coax him to lift his head, because tears are still streaming down his face, and when he does Sam slips a pacifier neatly into his mouth. Dean freezes a little, because Bobby’s sitting on the chair just across the room watching them. 

Prickles of mortification run through him. He’s wearing a diaper and sitting on the lap of another adult man, being coddled exactly like a baby. And now there’s a pacifier in his mouth. He should be fighting this. He should spit the pacifier out and demand that Bobby help him, and if Bobby won’t do anything he needs to subdue the both of them and keep running until he finds someone who will. Because if Sam gets him back in that house Dean doesn’t think he’ll ever leave.

But the weight of the rubber teat on his tongue is familiar. Sam’s hands are warm and know exactly where and how to touch him, with just the right amount of pressure. Like this, he doesn’t need to make any decisions. He can just _be_ , with no expectations and no failures. And he’s so tired now that the adrenaline rush is gone, the deep throb in his arm making itself known. It’s so tempting to just let go and let Sam take care of everything. 

He rolls the teat between his teeth and slowly relaxes into Sam. The action earns him a kiss on the top of his head. “Good boy,” Sam tells him. “You’re being so good right now, baby. Daddy’s so proud of you.”

Dean lets his eyes slide shut again, his head comfortably cushioned against Sam’s chest, the words making something warm unfurl in his chest. 

“Huh,” Bobby says then, sounding reluctantly impressed. 

“We’re not hurting him, Bobby,” Sam says over his head, never ceasing the slow, big circles against Dean’s back. “I know it might seem like we are, but Dean’s really stubborn. I wasn’t lying when I said he was having a hard time adjusting. Cas and I, we’ve kinda been expecting this to happen. I was hoping Cas would be here when it did.” He pauses briefly, the arm around Dean’s waist tightening a little. “I’m just glad you were here to stop him before he got very far.”

There’s something about this whole situation that’s not right, something niggling at the back of Dean’s head, but it’s difficult to think. His mind feels sluggish, and had he consumed anything he might’ve thought that Sam had drugged him again.

Bobby says from a distance, “It was luck, that’s all. Wasn’t expectin’ to walk out my front door and find him standing beside my fence.”

“Still. You got him to trust you and come inside.”

“It’s not difficult to create trust when you consider the first daddy he grew up with,” Bobby mutters. He sounds reluctant when he says, “He looks a hell of a lot better now than he ever did before.”

Sam’s head drops low enough that his lips brush against Dean’s forehead with each word he speaks. “Cas and I are trying, Bobby, really. We’re not in this to fuck him up any more than he already is. He’s just a baby. We want… _I_ want to protect him. I know that may sound weird, considering my reputation and what the two of us do for a living, but it’s the truth. Dean will never have anyone who loves him more.”

His voice rings true with an honesty that pierces Dean uncomfortably deep. He squirms on Sam’s lap and Sam hushes him, attention fading from the conversation to refocus on Dean. He pets Dean’s hair and back and bounces him gently, like a fussy toddler, until Dean settles again more because he’s well and truly exhausted than because he’s okay with the situation. He's vaguely aware that Bobby starts talking again, but the grip of sleep is too strong to ignore.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes a scene where spanking is used as punishment. It's not consensual, but it's not sexual either.

He’s not in his crib when he wakes up, but he’s not in Sam’s arms anymore either. He’s lying down on a bed. He opens his eyes sluggishly, squinting through the darkness at the room in hopes that something might make sense. Nothing looks familiar, not unless he counts the blue elephant on the bed beside him. Or the pacifier, resting on the pillow where it probably fell from his mouth while he slept, now sitting in a pile of dried drool.

He rolls over onto his back and feels something slide down around his chest. As soon as he glances down, he knows what it is and, more importantly, _where_ he is. 

A lot of the blankets in Bobby’s house when Dean stayed there were homemade, each of them carefully knitted or crocheted. Even the ones on Dean’s bed. It was the first time he’d ever had a blanket that wasn’t store bought, and it took him most of the time he stayed there to figure out who made them. Karen. Dean's never met her, has only ever seen one picture of her, and Bobby never spoke about his late wife, but he knows she was something special.

The blanket tucked around him is light green and soft with age, the same one that used to cover his bed when he was a kid. He runs his fingers over it, marveling at the fact that it hasn’t changed even though it’s been years. It’s a comfort to know that he’s still in Bobby’s house, even though he thinks it shouldn’t be. Not anymore. Not now that he’s lucid enough to understand what the conversation between Bobby and Sam really meant.

Bobby sold him out. Betrayed him. Called Sam and told him that Dean was here the second Dean left the kitchen. And maybe this wasn’t the first time, either. It’s not a coincidence that Sam knows Bobby. Can’t be. God only knows how many secrets Bobby has whispered in their ears, but at least it explains how they knew about things like the blue elephant. Dean doesn’t even remember telling Bobby that story, but he can’t think of anyone else who would have known - or cared enough to remember, for that matter.

He shuts his eyes against the hot sting of betrayal, refusing to cry again, and hears the door creak open. He refuses to look up until he feels the blanket being pushed aside and a familiar hand checking his diaper. It’s wet, unsurprisingly. He swallows back a humiliated whimper and can’t understand why this keeps happening. Why is it so much _easier_ to give in to what Sam and Castiel want? Why doesn’t he have the strength to fight against them?

Dean remains quiet as Sam lifts his legs and spreads something out under him, removes the soiled diaper and gently cleans him up. He’s almost afraid to look for fear that Bobby might be watching this too, but when he gathers the courage to peek he sees the room is otherwise empty. Sam is completely focused on his task, hands shaking baby powder onto his thighs and genitals and then manipulating Dean’s legs into a fresh diaper. He folds the top part of the diaper up and presses the straps into place.

“Dean.”

The sound of Sam’s voice is like a fresh jolt of reality, under which the prickle of fear runs deep. He disobeyed. Broke pretty much every rule Sam and Castiel have ever laid out. And there’s no way that kind of behavior gets by without punishment. 

If it were his father, Dean would already have a fresh bruise on his face – provided, of course, he hadn’t hyperventilated himself right into unconscious before John even had the chance to yell. For sure, John wouldn’t have held him and rocked him the way Sam had. John would’ve been pissed and he’d have shouted a lot, but then he’d have got drunk and by the time he woke up the next day things would’ve been pretty much forgotten so long as Dean tread lightly for the next few weeks.

Sam, though. He doesn’t think Sam will react the same way. Slowly, he opens his eyes and sees that Sam is looking at him. There’s a heavy look in Sam’s eyes, anger mingled with disappointment, a look that makes Dean want to squirm away until he doesn’t have to look at it anymore. He refuses to regret attempting an escape, but at the same time he has to face up to the part of him that would give anything to make that look stop.

“You were a bad boy,” Sam says once he’s certain that he has Dean’s attention. “You disobeyed your papa and me. You know you’re not supposed to leave the house without us, especially because you weren’t intending on coming back. But you did, and you got hurt. I’m very disappointed in you.”

Dean swallows, speechless, and his hands tremble.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Dean. I know what your father did to you.” The lines around Sam’s mouth deepen, but this time the disapproval is not directed at Dean. “But I am going to punish you, because I’m your daddy and that’s my job.” 

He sits down on the edge of the bed and Dean reacts, instinctive, lurching upright and scrambling to get away. Sam’s hand lands on his shoulder and yanks him back, other hand catching Dean’s wrists with humiliating ease. His body is pressed down, knees sliding off the bed until his belly and chest thud into Sam’s knees with a finality that makes him gasp. Instantly Sam’s arm comes down to rest heavily across his upper back, preventing him from getting back up, leaving him pinned and helpless. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Sam repeats, slow and calm, like he thinks maybe Dean didn’t catch the memo the first time around. “Twenty-five smacks. Ten because you tried to run away, ten because you unlocked the door and went outside by yourself, and five because when you hurt yourself you didn’t come home. Now I know that you can be so good, baby. Be good for me right now.”

The first blow makes Dean jump, a solid smack right across his buttocks that drives him forward against Sam’s thigh. For a split second he just feels heat, and then the sting blooms out sharp. He flinches, gritting his teeth, and tries to rear back. But the arm across his back keeps him down effortlessly, just in time for the next one. And the third. And the fourth. 

After the sixth hit he can’t take it anymore and puts his hands back, trying to protect his bottom. Sam swats his hands away easily, and that’s when he tugs at the straps of the diaper so it falls open and leaves Dean’s bare flesh as a target. 

The heat only builds with the next half a dozen smacks, a constant burn that has him fidgeting and thrashing and cursing Sam out vividly. You wouldn’t think the diaper would add much protection, but the material is thicker than Dean expected. Now there’s nothing between him and the palm of Sam’s hand, and the loud sound the impact of flesh against flesh makes is almost as bad as the spanking itself.

Because no matter how much he struggles, he can’t get away and he can’t turn over far enough to be able to fight back. It leaves him feeling exhausted and childish. He can tell that Sam isn’t hitting him with all of his strength, but he’s hitting enough that it _hurts_. His whole ass is throbbing with a dull ache, broken up by piercing bits each time Sam’s hand comes back down against a chosen portion of skin.

He’s never been spanked like this before and it’s overwhelming. Dean clenches his fists and goes quiet when it becomes apparent that squirming only makes Sam hold on tighter and that swearing only seems to make him even more determined to continue the punishment. He’s resolved to get through the miserable experience without crying, because he thinks that’s what Sam wants, and he’s not going to give into it.

But by the eighteenth smack, a fact known to him only because Sam is quietly counting out loud, the burning behind his eyes turns the room into a smear and tears start to slide down his face. The nineteenth smack garners a choked sob, one that Dean tries to keep quiet, but it’s like that one little sound is the gateway because a lot more follow even when he bites his lips and tries to muffle them.

At twenty-five his ass is scorching and probably bright red and Dean is crying like a little kid. His head is hanging down as snot and tears run down his face and, without the sounds of the spanking, his sobs are disgustingly loud in the otherwise quiet room. 

The army across his shoulders lifts off slowly, and then Sam grasps him across the chest and pulls him up. Dean flinches and whimpers when his bottom meets the bed, the once soft sheets now feeling like sandpaper.

“Shh,” Sam murmurs, brushing hair out of his sweaty forehead. He tips Dean’s face up, forcing a connection between their eyes. There’s a lot written in Sam’s face right then, guilt and affection. “Daddy didn’t want to do that, but you needed to be punished. You were a good boy, and I’m proud of you.”

Good boy. Proud of you. Dean fucking hates how even now, maybe even more now, those words slide deep inside his chest and make him feel warm. The words are out, pitifully small and interspersed with sniffles, before he can stop them. “A-are y-you angry w-with m-me?”

And he thinks Sam maybe hears what he can’t ask, _do you hate me now?_

“No, Dean. I didn’t punish you because I was angry. Hey.” Sam’s fingers tighten when he tries to look away. “I mean that. I punished you because you disobeyed us, because you put yourself in danger by running away. You scared me and you disappointed me, but I’m not angry. I love you, baby boy.”

Dean closes his eyes, unable to bear the expression on Sam’s face, and chokes on another sob. Sam just pulls him close and presses his elephant into his arms, rocking him back and forth, giving him all the times he needs to calm down again.

"M'sorry, D-" He stops, horrified at what nearly slipped out.

"Apology accepted," Sam murmurs, pressing a kiss to Dean's forehead.


	16. Chapter 16

When Bobby comes to find him, Dean is sitting in the bedroom alone. He’s calmer now, diaper fixed back in place and face cleaned by Sam, only sniffling occasionally. His head hurts a little, remnants of the bout of crying or lack of sleep or maybe even from the cold he’s still getting over, and he’s hungry and thirsty. But Sam had patted him on top of his hair and told him to stay before he stepped out of the room, and the throbbing in his bottom is still too prominent for Dean to risk moving.

He looks up when the door creaks open and then immediately back down, stomach clenching. Bobby’s standing in the doorway just looking at him, and Dean doesn’t want to think too closely about the picture he presents. He tightens his grip on his blue elephant, half hoping that if he doesn’t say anything Bobby will just go away. But of course Bobby Singer is a stubborn son of a bitch and never does what someone else wants him to do, which is why a couple seconds later the bed sinks down beside Dean.

Dean tenses a little, unable to help it, and Bobby sighs. 

“You don’t gotta be scared of me, boy,” he mutters.

“You sold me out,” Dean says softly into the fur of his elephant, not looking up. The words feel kinda clumsy after going so long with hardly speaking and without adrenaline driving him, but they need to be said. “Y’told him where I was. Y’told them _everything_.”

“Dean.” Bobby pauses and sighs again, pushing his cap up and scratching his forehead. “Kiddo, your daddy messed you up real good. He was never there for you, not like what you deserve. I shoulda kept you with me, but that’s my own fault and it doesn’t matter now. I can’t change the past, and what it comes down to is that you’re right. I did tell Sam what he wanted to know about you.”

Dean flinches, because thinking it is one thing but having confirmation is something else. His fingers are holding onto his blue elephant so tightly that his knuckles have turned white from the pressure, and it hurts but he can’t bring himself to loosen up. He’s torn between yelling at Bobby and stomping out of the room, and just sitting there and crying until Sam comes to take him away. Neither reaction is an option right now, and so in the end he just stays quiet and waits to hear what else Bobby has to say.

After about a minute of silence, when it comes obvious Dean isn’t gonna speak, Bobby says, “I didn’t want to, but I had to do what I felt was right. Sam told me about your life, Dean, and that’s – shit, you were barely surviving. You were working yourself to the bone for something you didn’t even want. And I know _this_ isn’t what you wanted either, not how you thought your life would turn out, but they’re not bad people. They’ll take care of you. Raise you up right, the way you deserve, and you’ll never want for anything.”

“I’m wearing a fucking diaper!” Dean bursts out, turning to glare at him. “Jesus Christ, Bobby, if you wanted to do something you should’ve asked me to come live with you. Not bent over for a couple of kidnappers!”

Bobby’s face goes a little hard. “Would you have accepted?” he demands. “I’m not stupid. You gotta sense of pride just like John.”

That stings. Dean hates being compared to his father. But Bobby barrels right on.

“If I had approached you, there’s no doubt in my mind that you woulda told me everything was fine and that you didn’t need help. Shit, ya idjit, you’d have refused help even if you were starving to death. And from what Sam says, you just about were. So don’t tell me what I did was wrong, Dean Winchester. I’m sorry that it came to this, but seeing you well fed and loved and cared for is worth it.”

He puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder, or tries to, but Dean wrenches away. He can feel the tell-tale prickling behind his eyes and he refuses to cry again. He keeps his head turned away so that he doesn’t have to look at Bobby, taking slow, deep breaths to calm himself and ignoring the eyes that are boring into his back. Like Bobby thinks if he stares hard enough, he’ll be able to see into Dean’s soul. 

“You can hate me if you want to,” Bobby says finally. “I’d like the chance to be part of your life. For real, this time, and that’s not gonna change.” He gets to his feet then and walks out of the room, footsteps strangely heavy. Dean can’t help turning to watch him go.

There’s so much emotion churning through him that he doesn’t know how to deal with. Anger, betrayal, shame, regret, affection – it’s too much. He buries his face in his blue elephant and stays there, breathing shakily, until Sam walks back in. He doesn’t fight the strong arms that pick him up, setting him easily on Sam’s hip like he belongs there, and it’s a relief to find that the lower half of the house is blissfully empty as Sam carries him down the stairs and outside.

It’s been a fear in the back of his head all this time that Sam will make him walk back to the house, or worse carry him back where anyone would be able to see, but there’s a car waiting right out front. Sam sets him down in the backseat and waits for him to slide over before getting in himself. Dean glances out the tinted window, feeling exhausted. The sun is just touching the horizon as it comes up and he realizes that he must have slept practically the whole night through at Bobby’s before the punishment… though it certainly doesn’t feel that way. 

There are a few people out and about, and it must be a weekday because most of them look like they’re getting ready to leave for work. He watches them curiously as the car pulls into the driveway. No one looks at the car, even when Sam opens the door and reaches in for Dean. In fact, the neighbors are so cautious about keeping their backs turned that it has to be deliberate. One man even stops halfway down the walkway to his car and turns around like he’s forgotten something in his house, but then he just stands there and waits.

The whole situation is just weird and makes Dean even more uncomfortable. It’s not like he wants to be seen by anyone; Jess and Bobby were more than enough. This, though? This is enough to make him wonder just who Sam is, that his neighbors won’t even look at him. He doesn’t realize he’s vocalized his discomfort with a soft whine until Sam shushes him as he pushes open the front door.

“It’s okay, baby. The people who live in this neighborhood are friends and associates of your papa and me,” he says, barely audible, clearly meant for Dean’s ears alone. “We all work together. I asked them not to pay us any attention. I know you’re not ready for that.”

What Dean hears is that even if he shouted, no one would try to help him. Not that he’s certain he’d bother to try – his ass is still really sore and he has no desire for another spanking anytime soon. And much as he tries to ignore it, he’s more preoccupied with the relief curling through him as Sam kicks the door shut behind them. Just from where they’re standing, he can see the playpen and the blanket that protects him from the floor, the book that Castiel was reading to him and the toys Dean never wants to play with. He aches for all of it with a surprisingly deep longing.

“You must be hungry,” Sam says, turning instead into the kitchen. He sets Dean down in the high chair and puts his elephant on the table within easy reach. “Tell the truth, I am too. What should we have to eat?”

Dean just blinks at him. After everything that’s happened, the escape and being spanked and having to talk with Bobby, food is the last thing on his mind even though his belly is growling. Sam doesn’t seem to mind his silence, pulling some leftover pasta out of the fridge and heating it up with some sauce. It’s simple and good, but Dean eats half-heartedly and leaves most of it in his bowl.

Sam, on the other hand, eats all of his and then the rest of Dean’s. He sighs when he’s finished, letting out a little burp, then sits forward and looks closely at Dean. “How about a couple of Tylenol, a bottle and then a nap?”

It should be troubling that Dean can think of nothing he’d like better, but the lure of being held in Sam’s lap while he drinks his fill is too strong to ignore. He falls asleep suckling on the bottle.


	17. Chapter 17

The next few days are… weird. Castiel’s continued absence is bad enough, but the routine that was established from the beginning is pretty much gone. He finds himself watching Sam a lot, searching for any sign that there may still be more to the situation than he's been told. But the problem with Sam is that everything he does is just so _genuine_. He’s like a frigging puppy, so wide-eyed and guileless that it’s nearly impossible to believe he could ever even think of doing anything wrong, never mind carrying it out.

He thinks a lot about what Bobby said, too. Some of it resonates right deep down to his bones, and those are the times when he starts to wonder whether he should still be trying to escape. He’s got a home here, one with food and a warm bed. He doesn’t have to worry about school or work, doesn’t have to go for days without eating or sleeping because there’s just not enough hours for everything. Everything is provided for him and all he has to do in return is accept the affection he’s being freely offered and live with a few bizarre rules. 

Christ, even Bobby thinks this can be a good thing for him. Doesn’t that right there say something?

But then there are other times when he gets so frustrated he could cry, because this isn’t something he chose. Sam and Castiel are forcing him into this and there’s a spark inside of Dean that refuses to stop rebelling. It’s this spark which makes him turn away from Sam’s cuddles and put up a fight during a bath. It makes him think about his mom, and how she’d always wanted him to go to university, and his dad, and what John would think if he ever found out how Dean was living.

The whole situation leaves him impossibly confused. He’s always heard about people being torn and now he knows why it’s called that, because sometimes it actually feels like his head is gonna split in two. He takes to rubbing his wrist when that happens, irritating the healing flesh. The prickles of pain help to clear the foggy mess that is his mind a little bit, though not nearly as much as he would like, but he never makes it any closer to a decision. Does he try to escape again or does he just… let go?

On the fourth morning after his unsuccessful first (last?) attempt, Dean is sitting beside the garden. Sam seems more attentive to the plants when Dean is near them, watering them carefully and even taking the time to flick a few bugs off here and there. The garden is doing well: several flowers have bloomed and he can tell that the strawberries are going to be ripe for picking soon. He steals a couple every time Sam’s back is turned, because for some reason Sam didn’t put the mitts back on him and Dean is fully enjoying the ability to pick things up again.

A familiar laugh comes from behind them. “I see we have a little thief on our hands.”

Sam straightens up fast, his whole face lighting up with relief as he drops the hose at his feet. “Cas! What are you doing here?”

“I live here,” Castiel says, perfectly deadpan, and Sam rolls his eyes.

“I know that, but… I didn’t hear anything about the mission being finished. Ruby didn’t contact me. I thought you guys were still out…” In several long steps Sam crosses the distance between them, jumping up the steps like they’re not even there, and envelops Castiel in a hug that lifts him right off his feet. “Why didn’t you call me and let me know that you were finished?”

“Because we didn’t.” There’s something in Castiel’s voice that makes the flesh on the back of Dean’s neck prickle, and Sam must hear it too because he sets Castiel down fast and looks at him.

“What do you mean?”

“It was a set-up, Sam. They were waiting for us. We barely managed to make it out, some of us... well, Ruby’s going to be fine, but there’s a reason she couldn’t contact you.” Even from a distance Castiel’s smile is hard, not reaching his eyes, and even though he’s dressed in his normal shirt and jeans he still looks like that stranger from before.

“Shit,” Sam swears. “I gotta call Charlie and Kevin and do damage control. Fuck knows what those assholes are gonna get out of them.” He drops a quick kiss onto Castiel’s lips and rushes into the house.

Dean is left blinking beside the hose, which is still spitting out cold water. Castiel sighs and walks down the stairs and over to the faucet, switching it off. Then he straightens up and moves towards the garden. Apprehension tightens Dean’s belly as he approaches and he looks down, pretending to be fascinated with the last trickle of water trailing from the hose. He doesn’t know what to say or how to act. Does Castiel even know about his attempt at an escape? If he does, will he be angry? Will he get punished again?

Castiel stops beside him and Dean tenses, half-expecting to be grabbed and flipped over his knee for a second round. Now that he’s been punished once, it seems like Sam, at least, isn’t hesitating to do so a second time – when Dean fought him in the bath, Sam had spanked him sharply on the bottom three times to make him behave. It stung enough to make him obedient, but it was nothing like what he had received at Bobby’s. _That_ is something that he has absolutely no desire to repeat anytime soon. 

The silence drags on until finally, Castiel breaks it. “You’re much better at gardening than Sam is.” He kneels down, apparently not caring about grass stains the way that Sam does, and brushes aside the leaves of the strawberry plant, revealing the numerous bright red berries. A few are green, but not very many. He examines them briefly before gently tugging one free and popping it into his mouth.

Dean’s smiling before he can stop himself, his lips twitching up when Castiel turns to wink at him. Just as quickly the world starts to blur into a smear as tears well up in his eyes. He tries to stop, embarrassed at crying for no damn reason, but they pool over and slide down his cheeks. Castiel’s blue eyes soften and he reaches out, scooping Dean into his lap just as Dean starts to cry. 

“It’s okay, Dean, you’re okay,” Castiel murmurs, and his deep voice is wonderfully comforting. “Daddy told me that you had a hard time while I was gone.”

So he does know, then. It irks him a little that Sam hadn’t told him he was in contact with Castiel, but Dean doesn’t examine the feeling too closely – he definitely did not want to talk to Castiel on the phone every night before going to bed like a little kid does, thank you very much, it just would’ve been a relief to know. He puts his head down on Castiel’s shoulder, sniffing. The tears are already drying up but Castiel still rocks him from side to side.

“I’m sorry that I had to leave. It wasn’t my fault that you decided to misbehave, but I feel like if I had been here maybe you wouldn’t have done it.” He sighs, the warmth of his breath stirring Dean’s hair, and then chuckles. “Though you probably would have. You’re quite the little minx when you want to be, Dean.”

There’s so much raw affection in his voice that Dean cranes his neck to look up at him, remembering what Sam had told him in the bath right before he escaped. And there's the proof right there: Castiel’s smiling, but there are tears in his eyes and Dean freezes.

“I don’t know what I would have done if I’d come home to find that you were gone, sweetheart. There could never be anyone to replace you. You’re so… so _precious_ to me. I understand that this is hard for you, that maybe you wish we’d chosen someone else, but… I can’t imagine being here with anyone but you. Everything I’ve ever wanted, my perfect little boy…” 

Gentle lips brush against Dean’s forehead and he shivers, throat tight, because no matter how much he might want to, he can’t ignore the honesty brimming in Castiel right now. It’s in every word he says and there’s just no way to mistake it for anything else. Castiel really means it: he wants Dean. He thinks that Dean is perfect.

No one has ever felt that way about Dean before.

The back door slams shut and Castiel jumps, his arms tightening instinctively around Dean’s back. “Sam?”

Tension is written all through Sam’s body as he crosses the grass between them. He looks at the two of them for a couple of seconds with an unreadable expression before he says, “The FBI is two minutes away. They have a search warrant and warrants for our arrest.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since the last chapter was a cliffhanger this is a fast update to help.

"Oh my god," Castiel says, almost before Sam is done speaking, frantic. "Sam, we have to get Dean out of here." He staggers to his feet, dragging Dean with him, refusing to let go. His hold is so tight now that it hurts, but Dean doesn't try to squirm away because the fear in Castiel's voice is scary and confusing. The FBI? Why the hell would the FBI be coming after Sam and Castiel? 

"Cas, there's no time."

"We can't let them take him! He's just a baby!"

"I know." Sam's trying to stay calm but there's a wild look to him, like a cornered animal. He reaches out, maybe intending to take Dean, but Castiel doesn't let go so they just end up holding onto him together. Being sandwiched between the two of them usually makes Dean feel safe, but not right now.

"Sam," Castiel whispers, pleading.

"I... Shit, Cas, I'm sorry. They don't have anything. I _know_ they don't. It's just another one of Henriksen's stupid raids. But..."

"Oh god." Castiel buries his face in Dean's hair as the backyard is suddenly flooded with men and woman wearing the dark suits and blue vests with the white FBI logo that Dean has only ever seen on TV. There's no warning at all, no lights or sirens, and Dean starts to shake because every single one of them is carrying a gun and looks like they're ready to use it. Sam hisses something under his breath and shifts around so that he's standing protectively in front of his husband and child.

"Campbell." The speaker is a black guy a little older than Sam, one that's stepped out ahead of all the others. He's wearing a cocky smirk that sets Dean on edge, but at least the gun in his hand is pointed at the ground. "I told you it would only be a matter of time until I found the weakest link in your system and now here we are."

"You don't have anything," Sam snaps. "Get off my property, Henriksen."

"And let the warrants that the judge finally signed for me go to waste? I don't think so." Henriksen makes some sort of gesture with his left hand and agents start moving towards them. Dean whines in the back of his throat.

"Get down on your hands and knees!" one of the agents yells.

"Do as they say, Cas," Sam says, not taking his eyes off Henriksen, slowly obeying.

"But Sam -"

"Do it."

Castiel is - not shaking, but vibrating with anger. He lowers himself to his knees, gently pulling Dean down on the ground beside him, taking a few seconds to cup his face and lock their eyes. "It will be okay," he whispers, the words meant solely for Dean. "Your daddy and I would never let anything happen to you. I swear to you, Dean, everything will be alright."

"I said on your hands and knees!"

Throwing a venomous glare at the speaking agent, Castiel drops his hands to the ground. Several agents, at least a dozen, rush forward, slapping handcuffs onto Castiel and Sam and crowding around them until they disappear from sight. Dean flinches away, his heart pounding. He doesn't understand what's happening and he whimpers with panic when one of those agents turns to him. It's a girl, tall and severe, and she stares him down for several silent seconds before she turns back to Henriksen.

"What should we do with this one, sir?"

Henriksen looks over at them. "Bring him in for questioning, Naomi."

"Yes sir. Stand up!" She barks at Dean. When he just stares at her in confusion, another agent physically hauls him to his feet. That's when Naomi gets her first good look at what he's wearing - a diaper and one of Sam's t-shirts - and her lip curls with disgust. "Get him into the car."

Dean is panting, panic rearing claws in his chest, as two agents start shoving him out of the yard. When his legs don't want to work right and he stumbles, they grab his arms and yank him right off his feet. He can feel the new bruises forming from the force of their cruel grip as he's carried out into the front yard. There are black cars parked right on the lawn, and he gets thrust into the backseat of the nearest one. The door slams shut behind him and Dean is left to curl up in the corner, trembling.

Naomi and another agent get into the front seat. Neither of them says a word as the car starts and peels out of the yard, leaving a mess of mud and grass in its wake. Dean's eyes dart between the two of them and he swallows against the cold dread and terror, wishing that he had Castiel and Sam or his elephant or his pacifier to help calm him down a little. His hands keep shaking and, after he makes sure that no one is watching, he gives into the temptation to slide his thumb into his mouth. His fingers taste muddy and sweaty, but he doesn't stop.

Wherever they're going, it doesn't take them long to get there, and the male agent yanks him out of the backseat and into the building. There are so many people Dean doesn't know where to look. It's been months since he was exposed to so much activity at once and he can't breathe as Naomi clears the way, marching through the chaos of uniforms and shouting and stares like none of it's happening. She comes to a stop outside of a door and jerks her chin towards it.

"Put him in there. We'll wait for Henriksen."

"Got it." The male agent drops him into a chair and walks out without a second glance, slamming the door behind him. Dean glances around quickly, unsurprised to see that he's been left in an empty room, just a table with two chairs and a long, mirrored wall.

He doesn't look at the mirror, not wanting to see the reflection of the lost, on the verge of crying, baby staring back.

It seems to take forever before the door opens again and Henriksen walks in carrying a folder, which he dramatically throws down on the table. The top of it falls open and photographs of dead bodies spill out. Dean straightens up a little in the chair as Henriksen leans forward, palms flat against the table, staring hard at him. His eyes are dark and penetrating.

"Go on. Look at them."

Dean's eyes drop automatically and he gulps. The pictures are awful. Men and women, old and young, most of them with a single gunshot wound to the head. Their eyes are wide open and staring. He rubs the bandage on his wrist hard.

"You know who's responsible for that? For the deaths of these innocent people? Samuel Campbell and Castiel Novak, that's who. The two men you've taken up residence with are a notorious crime boss and his top assassin, respectively. Now I don't know if you were aware of this. I'm the first to admit that those two are old pros when it comes to playing innocent. But if you do know something, you have to be honest with me right now or you could be in a lot of trouble.

"So we're going to start with something simple. What's your name?"

Dean says nothing, doesn't think he could speak even if he wants to, but as the minutes drag by and the quiet goes unbroken Henriksen's friendly smile vanishes.

"What is your name?" he repeats, a little harder this time.

The words 'Dean Winchester' lock up somewhere in Dean's throat and refuse to come out. Not just because he's terrified and bewildered, but because he doesn't think it will do any good. No one's looking for him. No one cares. And even though he already knows that's true, he doesn't want to hear it from someone else. He looks away from Henriksen, catching another brief glimpse of the photographs before he squeezes his eyes shut.

"Tell me!" Henriksen barks, slamming his hand against the table, and Dean jumps and cringes. 

"I-I dunno," he stutters. "I... I..." He blinks hard, completely disoriented.

"How could you not know your own name? Did they do this to you?" Henriksen demands, gesturing at Dean. 

A little bit of that rebellious spark cuts through his panic, finally, and he stays quiet on purpose this time. 

Henriksen straightens up, trying to loom over him, and begins firing off questions. "Did you know about any of this? Can you identify any of these people? Where has Novak been for the past week? Have you ever seen any of their files? What other buildings do Campbell and Novak own? Are any of those buildings under your name? Do you know the names of their associates? You're not leaving here until you tell me what you know!"

He's breathing hard now and Dean shrinks back, half-expecting Henriksen to come around the table at him. 

The agent must notice, because abruptly his whole demeanor changes. "If you tell me what you know, we can work out a deal," he says, obviously trying to sound soft and coaxing. "Depending on the quality of your statement, you might not even go to prison. You just need to work with us here."

"I..."

"Yes?"

"I wanna go home."

For a few seconds Henriksen just stares at him. Dean matches him stare for stare for about half that time before he can't take it anymore and lets his gaze drop, breathing shakily through the tears that are trying to break free. Henriksen mutters something under his breath and storms out, leaving the photographs behind.

Dean blinks against the single tear that slips down his cheek, unable to resist leaning forward to look through a few of the pictures. They're gruesome, yet there's a strangely compelling peacefulness to each one. He shoves the file away, so hard that it goes sliding off the table and onto the floor. He buries his face in his hands and tries not to cry, wondering when or if his parents will come for him.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait. My contract ended and then I was on vacation at my parent's house and then I caught a cold, and basically it's been a hectic few weeks wherein my attempts to relax haven't worked out. Haha. An extra long chapter to make up for it, maybe?

No one comes in for a long time after that. Dean's seen enough cop shows to know that he's probably being monitored through the mirrored wall, though he's not sure what they're waiting or looking for. He had no idea what the hell Henriksen was talking about, and pretty much the only information he can give is about his own situation. But something tells him that even if Henriksen _were_ interested in helping him - and from the way Henriksen stormed out that's a big if - that help would come with a hefty price tag.

At some point he must fall asleep, even though he doesn't really remember letting down his guard down enough to do so, because he wakes up to find that someone's brought him food. There's a sandwich, a bottle of water and an apple laid out right in front of him. And the photographs that were sprawled across the floor like some sort of macabre decorations have been cleaned up, the closed file now sitting on the edge of the table.

He's also pissed himself while asleep, and Dean grunts at the feeling of the wet material rubbing against his thighs when he shifts in the chair. It's not surprising, not really: it's (probably - he has no fucking idea anymore) been months since he was permitted to use a toilet, and even though he tries not to think about it, sometimes he doesn't even realize he has to go until he's going. It's like his body has decided that ever since he got sick and let himself go once or twice, his bladder is now permitted to act independently of his mind.

So now he gets to sit for the next god knows how long in a soiled diaper, because no matter how uncomfortable it is, he's certainly not gonna tell anyone that he needs to be changed. 

Instead he drags the sandwich closer, noticing that a) it's egg salad, probably from a vending machine and b) it doesn't smell that great. It's a far cry from the awesome chicken stew that Sam had prepared for supper earlier - or was it yesterday? Dean picks at the food moodily, wrinkling his nose as he puts a very tiny piece in his mouth. Feeding himself is weird, even though it shouldn't be, and if he completely ignores the bottle of water and apple that's no one's business but his own.

He gets about half the sandwich down before the off taste gets to him and he pushes it away. His head is marginally clearer now, but he's still not sure what's going on. Apparently the FBI has some kinda beef with Sam and Castiel. The question is whether or not it's legitimate. The two of them did kidnap Dean, so it's not out of the question to think they might be involved in some other illegal activity... but murder? Sam being a mob boss? And Castiel an assassin? That's a far cry from kidnapping.

Still, though. Castiel did leave for a little while, and with some of the cryptic comments Sam has made... Dean chews on his bottom lip, staring at the table in silent contemplation. But is he really remembering what Sam said and did, or is Henriksen's suspicion making him twist things around? There's no way to be certain, not really, and he's not inclined to say anything until he knows for sure.

Dean may not be able to say why, exactly, he feels this sense of loyalty to Sam and Castiel - probably because he's refusing to think about it - but it's still there and chances are it's not going anywhere anytime soon.

There’s a knock at the door a couple of minutes later. Henriksen walks in without waiting for an answer, though frankly it’s astonishing he bothered to give even that show of respect. But, and this explains it, right behind him is a woman Dean doesn’t recognize. She’s got short brown and kind brown eyes, and even though she's dressed just like Henriksen she actually smiles at him. Hesitantly, Dean smiles back.

“Now that you’ve had some time to think this over, we’re going to try this again,” Henriksen says, folding his arms across his chest. “What’s your name?”

Not liking the demanding tone, Dean remains quiet.

Henriksen’s eyes narrow a little and he tries a different tactic. “What is your relationship to Samuel and Castiel Campbell?”

“Did they do something to you?” the woman asks, and, when Dean’s eyes flick over to her, she smiles again. Her face is open and warm and friendly, and something about her sets Dean at ease. “My name is Jody. You don’t have to be afraid. It’s okay.”

“M’not scared,” Dean says, bristling.

“That’s good. I’m glad to hear it. I know my boss can be a bit of a hard-ass sometimes, but I’d hate to think that he was scaring you.” She winks at Dean as Henriksen huffs. “I understand that Sam and Castiel are your friends. Or maybe you just _think_ they’re your friends. It can be really hard to tell. So if something bad happened to you, you can tell me. I promise to do whatever I can to help you.”

He stares at her in scrutinizing silence for a few seconds, his mind churning. “Then what?”

“I’m not sure what you mean, honey.” Jody tilts her head in a gesture that’s achingly reminiscent of Castiel. Dean drops his gaze quickly. 

“If you throw them in jail… what happens to me?”

She looks startled by the question, exchanging a quick look with Henriksen before she slowly responds. “Well… we have to get some more information from you. You may have to repeat it a few times to some different people and it might take a few weeks to get everything settled. And you might need to testify."

Sharp horror floods through him at that. He can't imagine telling Jody and Henriksen what happened, much less repeating it to a court full of strangers. But Jody doesn't seem to notice, because she keeps talking.

"But once we were sure that you didn’t have any involvement or knowledge of what Sam and Castiel have been doing, you would be free to leave… Of course, if you’re not of legal age, we would have a parent come to collect you.”

Dean flinches a little at that, because the absolute last thing he wants is to see John Winchester again - and if he was asked to testify, and it got out into the papers, John would be sure to see it. Mercy would mean his father pretended they weren't related, but it wouldn't be beyond the realm of impossibility for a furious and embarrassed John to make an appearance. There would be no one to protect him, then.

And what would he do after that, anyway? Up till now, he’s been so set on escaping that he hasn’t thought much beyond that. Jody’s making him think about what sort of life he’ll even have to go back to. The university probably wrote him off as a drop out after he stopped showing up, and no doubt his shithole of an apartment has long since been rented. He has no family, no friends, no place to live, no employment, no school… and he can’t even blame Castiel and Sam for most of that. 

It hadn't seemed so daunting before when he was caught up in the adrenaline of escaping, but now that it's staring him in the face... He knows he can still go back. Maybe not to that town, but somewhere else. Try to get employment doing something. There’s not much he’s qualified for, and he’s not stupid enough to think the FBI will care about him once they've got what they want. And as good as he is with cars, he doesn’t have any of the necessary paperwork to back it up. So it would be some stupid, shitty menial job that barely pays enough for food and shelter where he'd always be looking over his shoulder anyway, as opposed to the mansion he lives in right now where he gets fed regularly and pretty much anything else he could ask for. 

Is he actually, seriously considering going back? The realization rocks him so hard he sits back, stunned. He’s been trying so hard to get out of Sam and Castiel’s grasp, but now that the opportunity has been presented Dean doesn’t know if he wants to take it. He finds himself thinking about his old life, how hungry he was, how exhausted and hurting and _lonely_. When he compares that to how gently Castiel had held him beside the garden, the fierce words of love that the man had spoken to him…

“Honey,” Jody says, and Dean starts. “What’s your name?”

Jody actually looks concerned over his extended period of silence, but Henriksen just looks eager. He clearly thinks that Jody’s broken through the last of Dean’s defenses, that Dean is about to spill everything. It makes him wonder how long Henriksen has been waiting for this moment. He and Sam seemed to have some sort of history, judging from the way that they spoke to each other in the yard, and he probably thinks Dean is the answer to his prayers.

If he goes back, it’s for good. There won’t be any escaping a second time around. Is it worth trading his freedom to be cared for? Is the situation any different now that he actually does have a choice? Dean doesn't know.

“Tell us!” Henriksen barks, apparently losing his patience.

“Sir!” Jody shoots him a hard glare.

“I’ve had enough of this coddling, Mills. The Campbells are cold-blooded murderers and the longer this stupid kid stays clammed up, the more time those two have to get at our witnesses. We’ve been close before and had it all fall to pieces. I refuse to let it happen a second time!”

“With all due respect, sir, you need to calm down,” Jody says through gritted teeth, putting her hands on her hips and taking up a protective stance in between Henriksen and the table. 

“I’ll be calm when this boy finally opens his mouth!” Henriksen glares at Dean like Jody’s not even there. “There are other ways of getting your information, kid. Much less pleasant ways that I’m not afraid to employ if necessary.” And the look on his face… it’s almost identical to the one that John used to wear at his angriest, right before he would bring out the belt to dole out some punishment. Dean whimpers, curling inwards instinctively, the flesh on the back of his neck prickling with chills.

“Detective Henriksen!” Jody exclaims a beat later, sounding shocked and horrified.

At the same time, the door bangs open. A tall, well dressed woman stands there with a furious expression on her face. When she talks, her every word is dripping with icy disdain. “I truly hope I did not just hear you threatening my client, Detective. I would hate to have to add that to the list of infractions you’ve already committed. Last I heard, you’re already at risk of being sued by numerous people for using unlawful measures to gather information.”

“You heard nothing, Talbot,” Henriksen says, backing off a little.

Talbot clicks her way into the room on the highest heels Dean’s ever seen. Right behind her is someone _much_ more familiar, and Dean can’t help the thin whine he makes when he sees Bobby. The argument that passed between them is forgotten in the desperation to be with someone who isn’t threatening him, and Bobby walks over to him quickly. There’s no mistaking the relief in his face, but Dean dismisses that to focus in on the fact that he’s carrying something, a sweater that's thick and warm, which he drapes around Dean’s shoulders. It smells like Sam.

“I’m pretty sure my ears are working correctly. I know what I heard,” Talbot says, scowling. “And what I heard was you threatening my client because he refused to cooperate with you. Let me ask you, Detective. Did you read him his rights? Does he even know that he hasn’t been arrested? Is he aware that he’s free to leave at any time?”

Henriksen opens his mouth and then closes it. Then he says, “He was found in the home of two known criminals –”

“Suspect and known are not the same thing. I would have thought you’d realize that by now.” Talbot’s smiling now, but it’s too sweet and looks more like she wants to eat Henriksen for lunch. “Basically what I’m hearing is, you took my client from his home and kept him here for over 24 hours without telling him anything. You badgered him for information and _threatened_ him when he refused to talk. Not once did you read him his rights or even ask if he’d like to speak to a lawyer. Is that correct?”

She doesn’t wait for him to answer, physically turning her back on Henriksen and Jody to look at Bobby. “I think you can go ahead and take him out to the car. I won’t be long.”

Bobby nods and curls a hand under Dean’s arm, urging him to stand. His legs nearly give out when he does and the diaper chafes painfully against his thighs, and he can’t help wishing that Bobby were strong enough to carry him. Talbot’s voice continues with a low but severe tongue lashing behind then, and at least this time no one looks at them when they walk through the outer room. The car outside is the same as the one that picked them up at Bobby’s before.

He’s half-expecting Sam and Castiel to be waiting inside, but when Bobby opens the door there’s no one. Dean feels tears on his cheeks and is surprised by how _empty_ that makes him feel. He turns wide eyes to Bobby, waiting for an explanation.

“I know,” Bobby says softly. “They couldn’t come near the police station, Dean. It wasn’t safe. Practically had to tie your papa down to keep him from coming anyway.” He puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder and gently pushes, guiding him down and into the car. Dean slides across the soft leather seats and Bobby climbs in next to him. 

It’s weak and he probably shouldn’t, but Dean leans his forehead against Bobby’s shoulder and tries not to cry. He’s not sure how long they wait before the door opens and Talbot gets in, still bristling like an angry cat. The car starts up immediately and pulls away from the curb as she says, “I’m going to get that man fired, honestly. It never ceases to amaze me how the ones who are supposed to uphold the law break it so easily.”

“He probably won’t live long enough for you to bother,” says Bobby.

“No,” Talbot says, and she sounds sort of satisfied about that. She smoothes out a wrinkle, the costly fabric of her skirt ensuring that it looks like it was never there, and eyes Dean. “He okay? Sam will have my hide if we were too late. Never thought I’d see him this protective over anyone but Castiel.”

“He’s their _kid_ , Bela.”

She purses her lips, shrugs one shoulder and reaches into her shoulder bag, pulling out a blackberry. “Whatever. So long as he comes back in one piece, I still get my paycheck. That’s all I care about.” 

Bobby rolls his eyes and wraps his arms around Dean’s shoulders, explaining in a low tone, “She’s their lawyer, best there is in the business. But I’m pretty sure Sam pays her more than she’s worth.”

“No price is too high for freedom,” Talbot says without looking up from her phone. Bobby rolls his eyes again.

It makes sense that it doesn’t take them long to get back to the house, but Dean still feels like it should take longer – like it doesn’t fit with the world that’s been built for him that something so terrifying could happen so close. Castiel, Sam and a red-headed girl Dean doesn’t recognize are all waiting out on the front steps. Even before the car stops Castiel is at the back door, prying frantically at the door handle. Sam finally reaches around him and pulls it open, and Dean’s throat swells up as soon as familiar hands grip his arms. Bobby lets go and Castiel hauls him out and up and he’s actually crying, clutching Dean so hard that it hurts. 

“Oh god, Dean, I’m so sorry.”

The world blurs into the tears that have been waiting to be released for the past several hours. Dean starts to cry, overwhelmed, and feels Sam wrap his arms around them both from behind. He puts his head down on Castiel's shoulder and fists one hand in Castiel's shirt and the other in Sam's, half-afraid that one or both of them might suddenly disappear. 

He doesn’t know how long the three of them stand there for, only Castiel’s whispered apologies breaking the silence. Finally, though, the red-haired girl clears her throat. "Sam, I'm sorry. I know how hard this has been for you guys. But this really needs to be taken of before the police show up for a second time."

Sam pulls away, stopped when Dean's fingers tighten in the material of his shirt. He looks down and then presses a hand to Dean’s cheek, like it’s killing him to put even that much space in between them. His eyes are damp, but his voice is steady when he says, “I won't be long, sweetheart, I promise. Daddy's gotta take care of a few things, okay?"

Letting go is unexpectedly hard and he clings to Castiel even harder, watching Sam.

"Cas, take him inside," Sam says, not looking away from them. "I gotta…”

Castiel nods, shifting Dean onto his hip. He’s quick to obey, and Dean is pressed so close to him that he can tell the instant that Castiel relaxes a little once they’re finally inside with the door shut behind them. They go straight up the stairs and into the bathroom, where Castiel locks that door and then sets him down on the floor and kneels down next to him. 

“Are you okay?” he asks softly. “Baby, did they hurt you?”

Mutely, Dean shakes his head. An odd combination of relief and resignation have tempered the fear and confusion for the time being, leaving his head fuzzy. Castiel frowns, biting his lip with worry, but his hands are unbearably gentle as he removes the t-shirt and soiled diaper. His frown deepens into a scowl when he sees the reddened, raw flesh of Dean’s thighs and genitals but he remains quiet, turning the water on and adding some of the bubble bath Dean likes the best.

He then stands up and strips off his own clothing mechanically, leaving only his boxers on, before he picks Dean up again. They step into the tub together and Castiel sits down, letting Dean rest in his lap. It’s the first time anyone has ever gotten into the tub with him, and Dean is shocked to find that he likes it. The water is deliciously warm and Castiel’s arms are strong, holding him tightly, and the thought of being sexually assaulted never even enters his mind the way it once would have.

This is it, Dean thinks to himself, his head lolling against Castiel’s shoulder, because he won’t be given a third chance. He licks his lips and closes his eyes.

“Papa,” he whispers, barely audible, only Castiel definitely hears him, judging from the hitched sob, and the arms around him tighten even more.


	20. Chapter 20

The water has started to grow tepid before Castiel finally moves, and Dean is half asleep when he does. He wakes up a little at the sound of the water draining out of the tub and shivers as his skin is exposed to the cooler air. Once the water is mostly gone, Castiel turns the faucet on, running more hot water and adding a little more bubble bath. He picks up one of the cloths that are always laid to dry alongside the rim and lathers up some of the soap they seem to use exclusively for Dean, then begins to wash him. 

There’s something about being washed – the old prickle of humiliation is still there, because it's weird to sit back and do nothing, but it’s nothing compared to how embarrassed Dean was at first. Castiel is just so _tender_ that you’d think he was washing a real baby. For the first time, Dean lets himself revel in being treated so lovingly. He doesn’t fight or tense up; he closes his eyes and just lets it happen, pushing aside all thoughts of Henriksen and Talbot and Jody and Bobby.

Like he can feel the change, Castiel brushes a kiss across his forehead. “I love you so much, Dean,” he whispers, the first words he’s spoken since he cried into Dean’s hair. “Thank you.”

Dean doesn’t respond, not because he doesn’t want to, but because he thinks he doesn’t have to. It feels good to be getting clean again, to wash off the taint of everything that’s happened, and Castiel is very thorough. He keeps his touch light when his hands moves down to clean between Dean’s legs, mindful of the raw skin, but he makes certain that every last trace of urine is gone. It stings, though, and Dean stirs enough to whimper a little protest.

“Hurts.”

“I know, baby, I’m sorry. When we get out I have some cream to rub on that will make you feel better, okay? Just bear with me for a little bit longer.”

“Cas?”

Even though the voice is clearly Sam’s, Dean still tenses up. Castiel soothes him, saying, “What is it, Sam?”

“I talked to Bela. She’s going to take care of Henriksen. Charlie will do the rest. I… I’m coming in, okay?” The doorknob rattles even though Castiel locked it, and Dean starts to shake. He can’t stop remembering how Sam and Castiel had put their hands up when the FBI swarmed the yard. What if it’s a trick? What if Henriksen is out there right now and he has a gun on Sam, and he’s making Sam talk through the door like there's nothing wrong?

“Shh, Dean, it’s okay,” Castiel says, dropping the cloth and gathering him close. “It’s just Daddy. There’s no one else out there.”

Swallowing a frightened whimper, Dean clings to him. Whatever else happens, he knows that he doesn’t want to go back to the FBI. Not after the way Henriksen was looking at him. Dean really believes the man would’ve done anything to get answers. Castiel’s hand strokes his hair as the door opens, letting in a gust of even colder air that makes them both shiver. It closes quickly enough and footsteps cross the floor, a light thump letting Dean know that Sam has settled down onto his knees beside the tub.

“Can I wash his hair?” Sam asks softly.

Dean dares to peek, seeing that the door is closed again and that it really is just Sam. And he looks about as wrecked as Castiel does. His eyes are all red and puffy and his hair is practically standing on end, like he’s been running his hands through it repeatedly. The badly wrinkled shirt is completely at odds with Sam’s normal standards, particularly when Dean notices what appears to be a coffee stain on the collar. When he sees Dean looking at him, though, he still manages to smile.

“Hey baby boy,” he whispers, holding a cautious hand out. Castiel shifts them close enough that Sam can touch, sliding his hands across Dean’s chest, shoulders and back like he needs to just reaffirm that Dean is really there with them.

He only lets go to reach for the shampoo bottle. He squirts some into his hands, lathering it up before massaging it into Dean’s hair. Dean goes completely limp then, boneless against Castiel’s chest and all but purring in contentment. Sam takes his time, too, turning it more into an exercise in relaxation than in cleanliness. It feels awesome, especially when Castiel resumes washing his legs and then his feet. He’s being pampered in a way that he can’t ever remember having had before.

Sam washes his hair out with water, hand cupped protectively over Dean’s forehead to keep the shampoo from his eyes, and then gets to his feet. He grabs a towel and scoops Dean up, wrapping him quickly in the soft fabric to keep him from getting chilled again. Castiel pulls the stopper out of the drain again and steps out on his own, grabbing a second towel to wrap around his waist.

Together, they lower Dean to the floor onto another two towels and dry him off. Castiel fetches the promised cream from underneath the bathroom sink and gently rubs some on the rash. It does help, soothing the raw, dry feeling, and then Sam shaves his face while Castiel gets dressed to give his skin a chance to dry before they put another diaper on. Sam helps him into a warm t-shirt and then picks him up.

“Think it’s time for food and then bed,” Castiel says, opening the door. 

Oh god. Dean whines at that, unable to help it. He doesn’t want to go back to his crib tonight. He knows exactly what kind of nightmares he’s going to have when he does, because when he first got kicked out of the Winchester household it was months before he stopped dreaming about finding John standing behind him. And now there’s even more fodder; his imagination is all too skilled at coming up with scenarios for what might have happened had Talbot and Bobby not walked in when they did.

“Dean?” Sam stops halfway through the door, peering down at him. “Baby, what’s wrong?”

Dean shakes his head, the sting of frustrated tears hot behind his eyes. He squirms a little but clings tighter with a muffled, terrified sob when Sam tries to shift him around.

“You can sleep with us tonight. I didn’t mean that you had to be alone, Dean,” Castiel says, stepping close enough for Dean to feel the warmth of his body, because of course he’s sussed out the problem. Sometimes it’s like he can read Dean’s mind.

“God yes,” Sam mutters, squeezing him tight. “Cas, you take him into the bedroom. I’ll run down and grab us some food.”

“I can butter bread, Sam,” Castiel says, but he takes Dean anyway and carries him into their bedroom. The last time Dean was here he was plotting an escape, and now that’s the furthest thing from his mind. He’s so exhausted he’s beginning to feel lightheaded.

Castiel sets him down on the bed and draws the covers back, climbing on and pulling Dean underneath with him. It doesn’t take long for Sam to come back with a tray of cut up fruit, toast and cheese, along with a couple glasses of water and a bottle. He sets it on the bed between them and climbs up. They hand feed him tiny pieces of cheese, apples and bananas, and for once the silence isn’t disquieting but comforting. Then Sam gives him his bottle, which is half-filled with water. Dean drinks it all.

He’s not really hungry after that, more tired, and he turns his head away from any more food. But he does accept his pacifier from Sam, and the silicone teat puts him at ease because it’s one more reminder than he’s nowhere near the FBI. He sucks lazily and listens to Sam and Castiel talking in low voices about Talbot and what she’s gonna do to Henriksen – a lot, apparently, Talbot’s one ruthless woman.

Sometime later, Castiel goes to push the tray away and pauses when he sees that Dean’s eyes are still half-open and semi-focused, listening intently to everything that they’re saying. He and Sam exchange an unreadable look. Dean just blinks at them slowly, fighting sleep. He’s tired of secrets. Castiel and Sam may be genuine in their affection for him, but there’s a reason the FBI came after them. And Dean wants – needs - to know why that is.

“In the morning, we’ll explain everything,” Sam says finally, apparently having come to some sort of unspoken agreement. “But right now we’re all tired. Okay?”

Dean thinks this over and nods. Sam smiles back and puts the tray aside as Castiel pulls the covers up higher. They snuggle down around him, leaving him comfortably enclosed between their chests.


	21. Chapter 21

"We're not going to lie to you, Dean. You deserve to know the truth."

Those frank words make something cold settle down in Dean's belly. He swallows hard, his eyes flicking from Castiel to Sam and back again. So far their morning has been kinda nice: calm and quiet. They woke up together and lazed in bed for a long time before Sam got up and made them all toast and eggs for breakfast. There's been no phone calls, no visitors, and no mention at all of the past few days.

Until now.

Clearing his throat, Sam glances over Dean's head at Castiel and carefully says, "The FBI was actually telling you the truth, sort of. I do run the mob, baby. I was born into it. My family has been prominent within the criminal underworld since I was a child, and when I got old enough my father handed the reins of the whole operation over to me. That's actually how I met Cas. He was an operative for the Russian mafia until I seduced him to the dark side."

Sam smirks and wiggles his eyebrows, seemingly unaffected by the fact that Dean is staring at him with an open mouth. Castiel just rolls his eyes.

"We decided not to tell you right away for a lot of reasons," Castiel says, ignoring his husband's antics. "But mostly because we wanted you to come to terms with this on your own time, and not because you decided that there was no way to escape from us." His hand, when he sets it on Dean's knee, is gentle. "I never anticipated having to go out on a job so soon. And if I had known that it was a set up... I _never_ would have taken the risk of putting you in danger, Dean. I'm so sorry."

"It wasn't your fault, Cas," says Sam, turning abruptly serious. "Even Charlie didn't know."

"I still should have realized. I have more than enough experience -"

"Seriously, man, we trusted Gordon and that's on -"

"You kill people."

Dean's quiet voice silences them both. Even though he doesn't look up, he can feel their eyes on the back of his neck. He's sitting between them on the couch and they're close enough that it's impossible not to feel their dual warmth, but there's enough space on either side that he doesn't feel boxed in. He does feel sick, though. His stomach aches with the memory of those photographs and the dead eyes staring up at him. He can see them when he closes his eyes. 

_Sam_ did that. _Castiel_ did that.

"That's just how it is, Dean," Sam begins.

"Yes, we do. I do." Castiel speaks right over him, gently gripping Dean's chin and guiding their eyes up to make contact. "I've pulled a trigger countless times. I've watched more men die than you could count. Since I began working for Sam, it's always been for a good reason: someone is threatening us, our work. But when I was younger, that wasn't always the case. I don't like thinking about those days and remembering how I used to be, when I thought I had nothing to live for but my job.

"I know differently now. I have a reason to get up in the morning. I won't tell you that I've stopped killing people, because I haven't. I still do my job. I'm damn good at it. It's just that now I have something that I want to protect. You and Sam matter more to me than my job. I never thought I was capable of that, but I am."

"Cas." Sam sounds a little amazed, and Castiel smiles faintly.

"Because of that, I think it's time I retired."

Sam's jaw actually drops. "What - seriously?"

"Yes. I know it may be a blow to Ruby, and she doesn't believe that Inias and Anael can take over for me, but... I can't let the FBI take Dean away again, Sam, and I would never ask you to step down. Your family spent years building those connections and securing your place, and since you've taken up control you've improved the quality of life for a lot of people. Drug and human trafficking rates have plummeted. You've been good for this country."

"You've gotten so patriotic," Sam teases quietly, his eyes soft and warm. "And it's okay. Really. You're amazing at what you do, Cas, and I won't deny that it's a hit. Ruby's gonna be pissed. But I've seen this coming for a while. I always knew you wanted to be a stay at home dad. To be honest, it makes me feel better knowing that you would be here for Dean if something happened."

Castiel kills people. Sam is a mob boss. Dean's head is spinning, and yet he can't say that he's truly surprised. Henriksen may be an asshole, but there was an unpleasant grain of truth in some of the things that he said. The FBI doesn't go in, guns blazing, for people who are innocent. It also explains some of the other inconsistencies that have been nagging at him, like why Bobby was so willing to tell Sam everything and why Castiel left and what they even do for a living and why they were never afraid that a neighbor might see Dean and ask questions. 

Jesus, most of - if not all - the people on this block probably _work_ for Sam. Maybe all of the surrounding blocks. The whole town, even. He wonders a little hysterically what would've happened if he'd knocked on some random door or found his way to the local police station instead of Bobby when he escaped. Does Sam have the local police in his pocket? Would they have trundled Dean straight back here?

He breathes out shakily, wishing that he had his pacifier. His thumb does nicely in its absence, and he stares straight ahead while he absently sucks. He knows that in the end, it's not like this knowledge really makes a difference. If anything, it only cements the fact that he's never getting away from Sam and Castiel. Dean had his chance. He could've told the FBI everything. But he didn't, and now he's pretty sure that if he ever sees Henriksen again, helping Dean is gonna be the last thing on the man's mind.

This information doesn't change the way Castiel held him in the bath and cried, or the way Sam cradled them both all night like he was afraid they might disappear. And most of all, it doesn't change the fact that he's _tired_. He's tired of fighting and scheming and trying to make his own way in the world when all the world does is kick him down at every opportunity. He just wants a place where he fits and he doesn't think he has it in him anymore to keep going alone; he doesn't want to be lonely anymore.

Sam and Castiel are still watching him. They're so different, but the expression of quiet concern that they're both wearing is eerily identical. Dean slides his thumb out of his mouth and says, "Hungry."

"You want food?" Sam says, sounding a little cautious and surprised.

Dean nods, looking up at Sam through his eyelashes. "Pie?"

"Pie," Sam repeats, like the word is foreign to him, and then he starts laughing. He grabs Castiel and kisses him hard on the mouth, then jumps to his feet and claps his hands. He's grinning so broadly his cheeks must ache. "Baby, I'm gonna cook you the best damn pie in the whole world. My momma had a recipe for pecan pie that will knock your socks off."

He dashes into the kitchen and, within seconds, Dean hears cupboards being opened and closed and pots and pans clattering around. Castiel lets out a soft chuckle and tugs him closer, until he's sitting halfway on his papa's lap. "You've done it now. Sam never gets that recipe right. Every once in a while he gets the urge to give it a shot and ends up cooking pie after pie until he finally gives up."

Dean just looks at Castiel like he's crazy, because he can think of far worse fates than having to eat pecan pie for the next week. Castiel smirks and stretches his arm out, grabbing a book off the table, and Dean swears his heart skips a beat or two. The whole time Castiel was gone, he tried not to want this as much as he does. He stares at the book greedily, wanting nothing more than to tuck his head against Castiel's chest and feel the vibrations as that gravelly voice reads.

Like he can tell what Dean's thinking, Castiel smiles and flips the book open. "If I remember correctly pecan pie takes time to cook and it's been a while since I got the chance to read to you. I think we stopped on chapter three."


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is technically the last chapter; however, there are 3 timestamps that go with this story.

The two days after that little chat are spent sleeping, with brief breaks where he's rousted out of bed for pie and baths and storybooks. Dean's exhausted, though, and so he's not impressed when the door to the nursery is pushed open not long after Castiel and Sam finally coax him down for a nap in his crib. He's still not crazy about sleeping alone, still wakes up crying from nightmares pretty frequently, but it's hard to fight back when you're punch drunk with fatigue and halfway towards a dream about some really awesome cheeseburgers.

Footsteps creep across the carpet towards him and then a gentle hand is set against his back, smoothing slowly down his spine. It's Castiel: Dean can tell because his hands are a little smaller than Sam's, though no less strong. Dean squirms under the touch, letting out a sleepy grunt that trails off questioningly, and Castiel chuckles a little in response. That's enough to make Dean open heavy eyelids, because there was absolutely no amusement in that sound.

A shadow crosses the doorway and Dean flinches automatically, but his mind is way ahead of him and he's left reeling at the sight of the man standing there. Not FBI, but this is almost as disturbing. He's pretty sure Castiel has never worn the kind of ugly ass trenchcoat this dude is wearing, but other than that they look identical: same bright blue eyes, same messy dark hair, same height and build. 

"Cas," the guy says, and at least his voice is a little different. It's higher pitched, a bit softer, but carries the same note of strain. "Come on, don't be like this."

"I'm not being any particular way," Castiel says, clipped and short, and yeah, he's pissed.

"Yes you are. I didn't mean for it to come out like that. You know I just..." The guy scrubs his hands through his hair in a gesture eerily reminiscent of Castiel when he's at his most stressed. That could be Dean's papa standing there but for the hideous clothing sense, and it's downright freaky. 

Dean whimpers a little, confused, and Castiel looks back to him immediately. His hands come down into the crib and slide under Dean's armpits, pulling him up and then out. The guy's eyebrows shoot up into his hairline when he sees them together and Dean can feel his face growing hot at the unexpected scrutiny, the _judgment_.

"Jimmy," Castiel says warningly. 

"Sorry. Sorry, I - goddamn, I'm doing this all wrong." Jimmy sighs and looks heavenward for a moment, like he's seeking answers that are written on the ceiling. "Cas, I'm not trying to be all smug about this. For god's sake, you know the last thing I want is to be anything like Dad. I'm happy that you're not going to be going out and shooting at people anymore, okay? But not because I want you to get an office job or some bullshit like that. It's because you're my brother and I'd be devestated if something happened to you."

Castiel relaxes marginally, though his grip on Dean remains firm. "I still enjoy my job. It's only because of Dean that I've decided to be a stay at home father."

"I know. And it makes me really proud to know that you're capable of putting your kid ahead of everything else." Jimmy takes a step closer, just a step, but it's enough to bring him inside the nursery. Now he looks at Dean with curiosity more than anything, and no matter how hard Dean searches his face there's no scorn or derision.

"I want to be a good father."

"You will be. You are. I can tell from the way you act around Claire."

At the familiar name, Dean finally connects the dots. It's been a long time since he saw the girl who accompanied Castiel to the library on a weekly basis, but he still remembers her as one of the politest, most pleasant kids to ever walk into the library. This must be her father, who - of course - is Castiel's brother. Probably his twin. It's strangely comforting to know that Castiel really is that girl's uncle, which means that there are some things, at least, that Castiel was not lying about.

"And I can tell from the way you walked in here," Jimmy adds, smiling at Dean. He looks like Castiel when he smiles, though he's lacking the hint of a harder edge. "You don't have to worry so much, Cas. You'll keep him safe."

"The FBI already took him once."

Jimmy grimaces a little, all the while slowly edging closer. "Yeah, but I trust Sam when he says that won't happen a second time. You married a scary man."

He's close enough now to reach out and touch if he wanted to, and Dean is very conscious of that. He can't help stiffening a little when Jimmy lifts a hand, but all Jimmy does is rest his palm very lightly on Dean's shoulder. It's a familiar touch, especially when he slowly increases the pressure and rubs his hand down and then back up Dean's back. 

"He's beautiful, Cas."

Castiel's face breaks out into a smile, and he kisses Dean on the top of his head. "This makes me happy, Jimmy."

"Good. You didn't really think I'd say anything different, did you? I'm not sure I want to know about your methods, unorthodox as they likely were, but I didn't shut the rest of our family out and spend months hiding your ass from the Russian mafia just so that I could walk away from you now. God knows where you'd end up without your big brother looking out for you."

"You're only older by eleven minutes, and I'd be fine," Castiel scoffs, though he can't seem to stop grinning. 

"Yeah right. I've heard that one before." Jimmy rolls his eyes and drops his hand away from Dean, stepping aside to let Castiel and Dean leave the room first. The rest of the house is bright with sunlight and Dean scowls. He's torn between curiosity about what he might be able to glean from Jimmy about Castiel's life and lingering exhaustion that makes him want to head right back to bed.

"I'm sorry for waking you up, Dean. Jimmy wanted to see his nephew," Castiel murmurs in his ear. He sounds almost guiltily happy. 

"M'tired," Dean whines.

"Shh, I know. I'm sorry."

They emerge into the kitchen, where Sam is standing at the stove stirring a huge pot of chili. Charlie's standing beside him, licking her lips. A girl who looks an awful lot like Claire is sitting at the kitchen table, but she's a far cry from the sweet kid Dean remembers. She's wearing torn jeans and a t-shirt with some blond guy's face on it and her head is buried in a handheld console. She barely looks up when they walk in and Jimmy sighs, shooting Castiel a helpless look.

"Claire," he says, barely hiding the impatience in his voice. "You could at least say hello to your uncle and - and your cousin." He stumbles briefly, recovering nicely.

Claire looks up. If she recognizes Dean as the worker from the library she frequented, she gives absolutely no indication. From the look on her face, they're the most boring things ever and she fully resents having expend the energy to acknowledge them. "Hi Uncle Cas, Dean," she drawls out, sounding anything but enthused, immediately dropping her head again.

"Remind me why you wanted kids again," Jimmy mutters.

Castiel just hugs Dean closer and shakes his head, not bothering to dignify that with a response. He takes a seat at the table and sets Dean on his lap instead of in the highchair. Dean curls up as much as he can, resting his head on Castiel's shoulder and watching through partially closed eyes as Sam pronounces the chili ready and starts doling it out in bowls. He takes a seat beside Castiel and Dean once everyone has a bowl, shooting them an amused look.

"I told you he'd be cranky."

Dean glares half-heartedly and Castiel huffs with a glare of his own. "We have _visitors_ , Sam."

"Right, right. I'll remember that when he doesn't want to drink his bottle or take a bath tonight because he's so tired," Sam says, picking up a spoonful of chili. He's smiling though, that fond little grin he likes to give Castiel and Dean when he thinks they're not paying attention.

"This chili is amazing," Charlie pipes up, obviously sensing the need for a change in subject. "I'll bring Jess over next time. She loves a good chili."

Sam brightens a little. "Her family's from Texas, right? I bet she has an awesome recipe."

"Claire, put your Nintendo DS away," Jimmy commands.

"But _Dad_ \- "

Castiel sighs, a contented sound, and tastes his own chili. With an approving hum, he offers the spoon to Dean. Dean contemplates it for a moment before he opens his mouth, allowing Castiel to slip the spoon inside. The chili is hearty and thick, lightly spiced, and maybe it's not pie but it's pretty damn good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have posted a new SPN non-sexual age play fic called [Hatchling](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2375636) that will feature baby!Dean and Daddy!Cas if anyone who reads this story is interested.


	23. Chapter 23

Dean doesn’t like the cold. He never has. And even this new life hasn't changed that fact, particularly since he’s back to sleeping alone in his crib now for the most part. It can take hours for him to feel adequately warm no matter how many blankets are piled on top of him. So to say he’s not pleased when Sam abruptly comes in and plucks him out of his comfortable little nest is an understatement, and he’s not shy about making his displeasure known with loud, sleepy whines that verge on tears.

“Really, Sam,” Castiel says, sounding exasperated when Sam walks into the bedroom. “I told you to just let him sleep.” 

“The power’s off. He’ll freeze.”

“He’s _already_ freezing.” Unlike Sam, who apparently really is part sasquatch considering how much he actually enjoys cold weather, Castiel doesn’t like the cold any more than Dean and it shows. He’s propped up on a bunch of pillows and all wrapped up in several layers of quilts, which he reluctantly opens when Sam sets Dean down on the bed. Dean wastes no time, scuttling up the bed and throwing himself into Castiel’s waiting arms. He shivers, clutching Castiel tightly as the quilts are refolded around them into a comfortable cocoon.

“Wussies,” Sam says with an indulgent grin. “I’ll go pick up some wood. We can build a fire.”

He tromps out of the room as Castiel huffs, tucking a cold nose against Dean’s neck. “I swear your daddy’s not fully human sometimes,” he mutters.

Dean just shivers again in response, tucking his frigid toes underneath Castiel’s thigh. The man is delightfully warm thanks to the soft wool sweater he's wearing, a sweater that is rapidly becoming one of Dean’s favorites, in addition to the layers of quilts. He plucks sleepily at the cable of the sweater and yawns so wide that fresh tears rise to his eyes. The room is dimly lit by candles, and even though the air is cold, he finds it easy to fall into a light doze.

It takes a while for Sam to come back. He and Castiel have been buying wood for the fireplace in preparation for winter for a few weeks now, but it’s all stored in the basement and that means lugging it up the steps. Dean’s not relishing the thought of the move downstairs, even though ultimately they’ll all be better off once a fire is burning. He would be content to stay right here with Castiel, and he suspects that Castiel feels the same way.

As a result, when Sam walks back in - making enough noise to wake a grumpy Dean - and brightly suggests they all go outside and play in the snow, all he gets for his enthusiasm are identical looks of disbelieving disdain.

“Oh come on,” he says, not dissuaded in the slightest. “It’ll be fun.”

“It’s _snowing_ ,” Castiel says, the way someone might say that it’s raining acid.

“The snow has mostly stopped coming down. Come on, Cas. Don’t you want to take Dean out and help him build a snowman?”

Castiel pauses for a split second and Dean groans in protest, already knowing what’s about to happen. He tries to cling to Castiel, but the damn man’s too fast and slips out from underneath him. Dean, left alone under the quilts, stares at his parents with accusing eyes. Sam doesn’t try very hard to stifle his grin as he holds out what looks very much like a bright red children’s snowsuit, only sized perfectly for an adult, complete with a pair of heavy black winter boots.

“It’ll be fun, baby, I promise,” he says softly, pulling the quilts back. He coaxes Dean into sitting up and kneels down, sliding first one leg and then the other into the puffy suit. Dean’s arms are next and then Sam zips the suit up, tucking the zipper snugly under his chin. Then he helps Dean put the boots on, tugging the legs of the snowsuit down over the tops of the boots, and then there’s fat gloves that are eerily reminiscent of those loathed mitts and a hat he can barely see out from under.

It’s an awful lot of preparation for something Dean is dreading. 

Sam carries him downstairs, where Castiel is already dressed and waiting for them. He looks about as uncomfortable as Dean feels in all of the heavy outerwear that's necessary for the chilly temperatures. Sam, on the other hand, somehow manages to look completely at home even while donning a thick coat, scarf, gloves, hat and boots. There's a huge grin on his face as he flings the door open, letting in a cold gust of air and a few stray snowflakes.

The snow really has mostly stopped falling, though the sky is still overcast and gray. Now there's several inches of snow on the ground and it crunches beneath Dean's hands and knees. He stops on the porch, looking down at the soft, fluffy white coating with some fascination. He really can't remember the last time he played in the snow, but he knows it's been years. Snow isn't much fun when you don't have the right clothing to wear, and John never shelled out the money for a snowsuit or even a decent winter jacket. There were lots of mornings that Dean had to get up and dig the Impala out of the driveway and nearly lost his fingers to frostbite in the process.

Letting out a yelp that sounds entirely too happy, Sam bounds down the steps and throws himself down in the snow. He starts dragging his arms up and down and sweeping his legs from side to side in exaggerated movements. He does this for about a minute while Castiel and Dean stare at him before he carefully gets up, dusting snow off his ass and turning to examine the snow angel that he's left behind. Or maybe the more accurate term would be snow giant, because Dean doesn't know if angels are allowed to be well over six feet tall.

"Exactly how old are you?" Castiel inquires, sounding amused.

"You're never too old to have fun in the snow, sweetheart," Sam says with a wink. It makes Castiel's cheeks flush pink and Sam laughs, reaching down to pat some snow into a ball. It sticks together when he moves his hands away, letting it drop to the ground. "Let's build a snowman."

It shouldn't be as much fun as it is, Dean thinks to himself a little bit later. Castiel has rolled out the middle and gone back inside to get supplies, though he wouldn't say what, and Sam's taking care of the (enormous) bottom. Dean's been charged with making the head, and he's pushing a small ball of snow around and crawling after it. His nose is cold and his fingers are tingling, but much to his surprise he's actually smiling. The rest of the street is quiet and it's like the world is comprised entirely of him and his parents.

The door bangs shut as Castiel comes back out on the porch, holding his hands behind his back. "Are we ready?"

"I think so. Wanna help me put the snowman together?" Sam says to Dean, and Dean nods even though he knows he won't be much help at all. Help is mostly sitting at Sam's feet and watching as he hefts one ball of snow on top of the other. The snowman is just a little shorter than Sam when it's formed, tall enough that Castiel would have to reach up to touch his face.

"Turn your backs."

"Aw, Cas - "

Castiel just plants his hands on his hips and glares. Sam rolls his eyes but obeys, and Dean looks away too even though he's really curious. When he was in elementary school, sometimes the teachers would help the littler kids build snowmen. But Dean always had to use rocks for the face because he didn't have any food to spare, and it was never the same. Never as good as the snowmen he used to see on the bus ride home, the ones that made him ache because Mary would've been damn good at snowmen.

"There."

At the quiet pronouncement, Dean turns back quickly. His eyes widen in surprise. In addition to the standard carrot nose and what looks like two chunks of potatoes for eyes, the snowman has red licorice for its mouth. It's midsection is covered in a familiar plaid shirt, and a pair of old jeans have been pressed into the snow on the bottom. Two wooden sticks have been pushed into either side of the 'shoulders', and one of the sticks is holding a spatula. And on top of its head, right underneath one of the beanie hats Sam occasionally favors, is a mountain of stringy pasta that looks suspiciously like hair.

"What the hell?" Sam says incredulously.

"It's Snowman Sam," Castiel says in that perfectly deadpan way of his, a smirk lingering around the corner of his mouth, and the look on Sam's face is _priceless_.

Dean laughs.

He doesn't mean to. It happens before he can stop it - and then keeps right on happening while Castiel and Sam turn to stare at him in shock. His giggles are loud and boisterous as he doubles over, because their identical expressions of surprise only make him laugh that much harder.

Sam huffs a little, but there's a smile tugging at the corner of his lips and his eyes are bright with humor when he glances back at his husband. His attempt at hiding his smile fails entirely when he says, "I always forget how good you can be at revenge."

Castiel smirks at him. "Make some hot chocolate and I'll consider you forgiven for dragging us out here."

"Slave driver!" Sam throws his hands up, but he's grinning outright now. 

Slowly Dean's giggles trail off. He's cold and hungry, and he's almost positive that his fit of laughter made him lose control of his bladder again, but he feels a sense of contentment that's been missing for a long time and his parents are both grinning like complete idiots. For once he doesn't even mind letting Sam pick him up and carry him back inside.


	24. Chapter 24

Santa isn’t real and no one knows that better than Dean Winchester. After you go through a couple years of waking up on Christmas morning to a bare, empty hotel room no matter how many letters you write, you figure that out pretty quick. Things had gotten a little better after Kate and Adam entered the picture and John stopped drinking so much, mostly because they actually started celebrating Christmas, but even then Dean always felt like an intruder. 

And living on his own, well, Christmas was just a word that didn’t mean much but empty days where he couldn't work to put food on the table.

But he indulges Sam and Castiel on Christmas Eve when they insist on putting cookies, a glass of milk and some neatly sliced carrots – for the reindeer – out on the coffee table, and even Dean has to admit that it adds a little something to the already beautiful scene Castiel has created. The house looks like the spirit of Christmas threw up on it, but the final combination is so warm and homey that he finds it hard to mind - even if he’s not exactly appreciative of the footie pajamas with the reindeer antlers on the hood Castiel coaxes him into wearing.

It’s certainly a far cry from where he spent last Christmas. The library had been closed Christmas Eve, Christmas and Boxing Day, which meant he was three days short of money he couldn’t afford to lose. Needless to say there had been no Christmas celebration for him; Dean had spent the day huddled up on the couch in threadbare blankets because he didn’t want to turn the heat up, staring blankly at one of his textbooks. His dinner had been a box of Kraft Dinner made without butter or milk.

Not so this year. Sam spends most of Christmas Eve preparing to cook a feast the next day. He’s already made meat pie and a variety of desserts, including an apple pie that makes Dean’s mouth water just to look at it, and the kitchen has smelled amazing for the past week. While Sam was busy cooking, Dean helped Castiel to decorate the enormous tree. Now Castiel’s hanging three stockings over the fireplace, and much to Dean’s surprise there’s one right in the middle with DEAN on it in huge gold letters.

His stomach hurts a little bit as he watches all this revelry. Sometimes he can’t help thinking about what would have happened if he had escaped, or if he’d let the FBI help him. There are times when he still doesn’t like being treated like a baby, but then there’s this. There’s a house filled with laughter and more family coming over tomorrow morning – Bobby, Charlie, Jess, Jimmy and Claire – and there’s people who actually care about him and sometimes it’s overwhelming, he just doesn’t know what to _do_ with it all.

He must make some sort of noise, because all of a sudden Castiel turns around and looks at him. “Dean? Honey, what’s wrong?”

Dean shakes his head mutely. Castiel and Sam have eased up a little in the past month or so; they’ve never really kept him from speaking but he mostly remains silent anyway, preferring to communicate in gestures or wordless sounds. They have allowed him to start walking a bit when he doesn't want to crawl, but for the most part he still gets carried. He holds his arms up and Castiel comes over to him immediately, picking him up and cuddling him close.

“What’s wrong?” he asks again, swaying Dean back and forth. “Dean?”

Even if he wanted to he wouldn’t know how to put this into words, so he puts his head down on Castiel’s shoulder and slides his thumb into his mouth, staring at the tree with half-lidded eyes. Castiel sighs deeply and presses a kiss to the top of his head, walking towards the kitchen. Sam looks up as they enter, right in the middle of stirring something vigorously. Perhaps a little too vigorously, as his hair, apron and jeans, as well as the counter around him, are coated with a light dusting of flour. 

“Sugar cookies are almost ready," he says brightly. "Tomorrow we'll just have to decorate them."

“That's great," Castiel says. "Dean and I are going up to bed, okay?”

“Okay…” Sam sounds a little worried. Castiel walks over to him and there’s a long beat of silence, and Dean knows they’re doing that thing where they communicate without talking. It’s creepy. Then Sam’s hand is cupping the back of his head and he gets another kiss on the top of his hair.

“I’ll be up in a few minutes.”

“Take your time.” Castiel ascends the stairs, entering the nursery and setting Dean down on the changing table. Dean focuses his attention on the ceiling as his pajamas are unsnapped and his soiled diaper is removed. He’ll never quite get used to having this done, but the days where he was so humiliated he wanted to curl up and die are gone. The dull hum of embarrassment is still there, but Castiel’s so damn matter-of-fact about it all that it’s hard to care.

It feels better to be clean again, better still when his pajamas are refastened and Castiel slips his pacifier into his mouth in lieu of his thumb. He’s expecting to be taken to the crib, but instead they head for Castiel’s and Sam’s room. Even this room has been decorated: the sheets are a bright red patterned with white snowflakes, decorations set out on the dresser, twinkling lights put up around the window. Castiel turns off the overhead light and sets Dean down on the bed. He turns the television on to some old Christmas movie about Rudolph.

Dean’s not interested in watching, though, rolling over on his side and curling up into a ball. Sometimes he can remember, if somewhat fleetingly, what Christmas was like when his mom was alive. Mary _adored_ Christmas, and it’s the time of year when he tends to miss her the most. And that just makes him think about John, Kate and Adam and whether or not they ever wonder about him, or if he’s been stricken from their minds. Like white-out, one swipe across the paper and he’s gone forever.

It takes him a long time to fall asleep, and once he does, he doesn’t sleep well. He wakes up when Sam comes to bed, and then nearly every time Sam or Castiel move after that. Sometime after the sun comes up, he gives up on sleeping altogether and just lays there quietly, listening to Sam snore, for a couple of hours. 

Castiel wakes up first, and though he looks concerned when he sees that Dean is already awake, he doesn’t mention it. He just smiles at Dean and gives Sam a rough shake to wake him up, because their guests will be arriving by eight to open presents and it’s already after seven. Sam grunts and rolls over, and Castiel rolls his eyes before sliding out of the bed and padding out.

The smell of coffee does eventually get Sam moving. After another diaper change, he and Dean head downstairs. Jimmy and Claire have already arrived. Claire’s eyeing up the presents under the tree, and holy shit there’s a lot of them. Dean sits on the carpet just inside the door and boggles at the sight, because he always thought the living room was large until he saw it like this. Roughly half of it is covered by brightly adorned boxes, leaving barely enough room for all of them to squeeze in together. He can’t help but wonder who it’s all for, and why they would need so much. 

"What do you think, baby?" Sam says, yawning widely as he edges past Dean. There's a proud look on his face as he surveys the room, and then he points to the empty plate and glass on the coffee table. "Looks like Santa found us after all."

"There was never any doubt for that," says Claire. She's given in to her sense of curiosity and now she's on her knees beside the tree, carefully examining the brightly colored gifts. She picks up one particularly large package and shakes it gently, head cocked.

"Claire, stop that."

"C'mon, Dad, I need to know if it's clothes or not."

Jimmy rolls his eyes. "I kept my promise. No clothing. The only thing worse than picking out clothes for you is trying to return them the day after Christmas because you can't wait."

Claire's smile is enormous, but before she can respond the back door crashes open and Charlie, Jess and Bobby spill into the room in a chaos of sound, delicious smells and cold air. For a few minutes there's a lot of voices as Sam, Castiel and Jimmy greet the new arrivals and Dean takes the opportunity to move deeper into the living room, finding a little spot over by where his playpen normally is. He pulls his legs up close to his chest, holding onto his blue elephant.

It takes a little while before everyone is settled, Charlie and Jess curled up on the couch together with Bobby in the chair across from Jimmy. Castiel gets everyone coffee or tea - warm milk for Claire - while Sam brings in a tray of sweets. Once everyone has something to eat or drink, Sam claps his hands and turns in a slow circle until he spots Dean. His smile tightens a little when he sees that Dean is sitting off by himself in a corner of the room, something sad flickering briefly through his eyes before he makes an effort to cover it up. 

"Papa and I have a surprise for you," he says, holding his arms out to Dean.

A surprise? Dean cocks his head warily, eyeing Sam for a moment, but does nothing to stop himself from being picked up. His bewilderment only grows when Sam turns and walks through the kitchen, heading away from the rest of the house. Castiel is standing beside the door to the garage, a huge smile on his face. As Sam and Dean walk towards him, he puts a hand on the knob and pushes the door open slowly. The garage is dark inside until Castiel switches a light on, revealing the last thing that Dean ever expected to see.

It's the Impala. The beautiful black 1967 Impala that his mom doted on, the one that Dean vividly remembers riding in the back of for countless years: first with both his parents in the front seat and then later with just John. Even though the license plate is identical, he tells himself that it can't be the same car. It can't. There's no way that John would agree to sell the Impala; if there was one constant in Dean's life it was that car because no matter how much they were struggling, and make no mistake there were some days they barely had the money for food, John refused to even _think_ about getting rid of it. 

Sam sets him down on the floor and Dean slides to his knees, forgetting even to be embarrassed about the fact that he's crawling in front of so many people. He makes it to the Impala and touches the car door with reverent, shaking fingers. The paint is smooth and a little chilly beneath his fingertips, even though the garage is heated. The door opens easily when he pulls at it and he's hit with that familiar smell, a combination of leather and musk and oil and fast food that hits him right in the pit of his stomach. Even before his eyes land on the initials scratched into the underside of the dash - D.W. and M.W. - he's starting to cry.

"Dean?" Castiel is beside him instantly, radiating concern, but Dean is already sobbing. Warm arms scoop him up, familiar hands rubbing his back in an effort to soothe him, but it doesn't help. 

He didn't think he'd ever see the Impala again. It's the one thing that he truly hated to leave behind when John kicked him out, and now it's somehow here. Like some sort of fucking Christmas miracle that leaves him reeling and breathless, because things like this don't happen in Dean Winchester's life and he doesn't get it. And instead of putting words to it like a normal person, all he can do is cling to Castiel and wail like the baby they want him to be.

"Shh, baby, it's okay," Sam whispers, pressed so close that he's cradled right between them. "Don't cry."

"I don't understand, Sam. Did we get the wrong car?"

"I trust Bobby, Cas. I think... I think it's just a little much, that's all. Dean. Hey, little one, look at us."

Dean doesn't lift his head until Sam's hand nudges his chin, and then he looks up at them through wide, watery eyes. 

"W-why?" he manages to choke out. "I d-don't..."

"Because we couldn't think of a better gift for you," says Sam. "Bobby told me about the car, about what it means to you. I knew you had to miss it." He tenderly pets Dean's hair. "He helped me track it down."

Dean's chin is wobbling. "My... my m-mom..."

He's hesitant to mention her because he never talks about his past life, particularly his parents, and he's not sure how this mention of her will be received. Much to his surprise, Castiel and Sam don't get angry. If anything, they look very sad.

"It's okay to miss your mommy, Dean," Castiel says softly. He sits down on the passenger seat of the Impala, setting Dean in his lap. Sam circles around to the other side, getting in through the driver's side door. The bucket seat fits them all comfortably; there's ample room even if Dean weren't curled up as small as possible.

Castiel keeps talking. "And it's okay if you're a little overwhelmed by Christmas. Sam and I wanted to give you everything we could think of because you deserve so much. Maybe we went a little overboard." His smile is a little crooked and totally sheepish. 

"A little?" Sam mutters, but he sounds fond as he wraps an arm around Castiel's shoulder and tugs at Dean so that he's sprawled across the both of them. Dean goes willingly enough, pressing his tear-stained face against Sam's hip.

"You're the one who bought him a car, Sam. I don't think you have a right to judge."

"That's different," Sam says loftily. "Every boy needs a car."

"Right," Castiel says, rolling his eyes. He rubs Dean's back some more, seemingly content to just sit there with his husband while Dean cries himself out. Later, Dean will wake up from his impromptu nap and find that they've waited for him to open up the gifts, and he'll get another taste of what a family Christmas is actually supposed to be like.


	25. Chapter 25

"What are you doing tonight?"

The question, innocent though it should be, is enough to give both Sam and Dean pause. They look at each other for a moment and then Sam sighs, grabbing a napkin from the table so that he can wipe at Dean's chin. Dean pouts and tries to squirm away as best he can, but Sam's too fast for him. He uses his other hand to keep Dean in place until his face is clean.

"I think that Dean's going to need a long bath," Sam says, "but other than that, nothing. Why? What's up?"

Castiel smiles, apparently pleased by Sam's response. "Charlie asked me if we would baby-sit tonight and I said yes."

"Wait, they're actually leaving Gertie alone?" Sam says, sounding shocked.

"Well, it had to happen sometime. And Jess said they haven't had a night alone since they brought her home, which is over five months." Castiel shrugs, idly spinning his fork around the leftover pasta on his plate. "I was hoping you would be here. I know they would feel more comfortable dropping her off if we were both home."

Sam scratches the back of his head and then shrugs. "Like I said, no plans. Everything's been pretty quiet on the front lately. Nothing that Kevin can't handle for the night. I guess I'd be up for some baby-sitting. At least Gertie's pretty quiet, not like our little monster." He chucks Dean gently on his now clean chin.

"Good, because I think I just heard them pull in."

"What? Cas!"

It's too late. Before Sam's managed to do much more than scramble to his feet, the back door is flying open and Charlie is barreling in dragging Jess and a familiar bundle of purple blankets behind her. Dean watches with curiosity and a sinking feeling as Charlie expertly unloads a diaper bag on Sam, pries Gertie away from Jess and hands her off to Castiel, and then ushers her wife back out the door. All in the span of less than five minutes, which is pretty impressive considering how hard Jess is digging in her heels.

"Her bedtime is 7 but she might fall asleep sooner," Jess shouts over her shoulder. "And if she gets fussy, she just needs a bottle of warm water. Not milk, it'll upset her stomach. And -"

"Honey, they know that. They've got a baby, too," Charlie says patiently.

"It's not the same. Dean's not really -"

Having been in the process of following them out, Sam hastily shuts the door before the rest of Jess's comment makes it back through. But it doesn't matter. Dean knows exactly what she was about to say. And it makes his stomach go even go colder as he watches Castiel cradle Gertie in his arms, tipping her up towards his face so that he can hum softly to the half asleep baby.

He knows, probably better than anyone, that _he's_ not really a baby. In terms of physical age, Dean is roughly 23 years old. And he looks it, though admittedly recent months have softened his body a lot. His muscles are nothing like what they used to be, particularly in his stomach and legs. He stands and walks so rarely that he wobbles like crazy when he tries, and, if he ever wanted to do so regularly, he'd probably have to be taught all over again just like a real toddler.

But Castiel and Sam have never let his height and weight stop them from treating Dean like he's an infant. Both men are strong from years of working out - a necessity considering their jobs - and they have very little difficulty picking Dean up and carrying him around the house. Sam in particular has a fondness for carrying Dean, especially if he's had a long or difficult day at work. He'll walk in the door, scoop Dean up and then head right outside to make endless circles in the backyard. Walking it off, just the two of them, until Dean's passed out and drooling on his shoulder and Sam feels stable enough to go back in.

So this sight shouldn't bother him nearly as much as it does, but... there's just something about seeing Castiel with Gertie that looks painfully _right_. She's so tiny, so small and fragile, and he doesn't have to struggle or strain to hold her little body against his chest. She's completely enclosed in his arms, cradled and safe, oblivious to the fact that Dean's having some trouble squashing the jealousy that's pummeling through him at full speed.

He bites his lip, tearing his gaze away and looking down at the splattered remains of his food. Sam and Castiel are his parents, and they love him very much. Dean hears that every single day, especially from Castiel, because they both feel like he didn't hear it enough the first time around. There's absolutely no reason why this niggling fear is welling up in his chest that spending more time with Gertie will make them realize how much extra and _unnecessary_ trouble that Dean is. 

He has no idea what he would do if his parents decided they didn't want him anymore. There's nothing left for him to go back to. Not even going to the FBI would help, because he's pretty sure he burnt that bridge a long time ago. And it doesn't help that he's almost positive Sam now has Jody, the one agent who was actually sort of nice to him, on his payroll. He supposes he could go to Bobby, but seeing Sam and Castiel every day would hurt too much.

The door bangs shut as Sam walks back in, pulling Dean out of his thoughts and Castiel away from Gertie, and then there are arms plucking him out of his chair. "I'll give Dean his bath," Sam says, shifting Dean easily to his hip. "Jess said to tell you that Gertie's already had a bath."

"I'll clean up from dinner, then," Castiel says, bouncing Gertie gently. "I rented a movie for us to watch."

"Sounds good. C'mon, little man, bath time." Sam carries him up the stairs and into the bathroom. He sets Dean down on the rug and kneels down, removing his shirt and pants and diaper. Dean can't help paying more attention than usual as Sam runs warm water in the tub and then lifts him in.

Does Sam ever find it a strain, having a "baby" this big? Wouldn't he prefer having someone who was smaller and more easily malleable? Sure he can lift and carry Dean with less difficulty than most men, but it's still not effortless for him. Not the way it should be. Especially when they're tired, or it's been a long and physically demanding day, it would be a lot easier for them to handle someone like Gertie, especially if she tried to throw a tantrum.

"Hey baby boy, what's wrong?" Sam asks, sounding genuinely puzzled when Dean doesn't immediately grab for a toy. "You normally love bath time."

Dean drops his gaze instead of responding, watching as Sam slowly rubs the washcloth across his belly. Bath time is less embarrassing than it used to be, even though he still feel a little mortified at times. It gets better every time, though. Sam, who is usually the one to give Dean his bath, goes out of his way to make it as much fun as he can, buying lots of little toys and bubble bath and encouraging him to have water fights and never complaining when Dean gets him soaked. 

This was where they were when Dean heard about the first baby they ever tried to adopt. Do they ever wish that had gone through so there would be no need to deal with Dean? It scares him that he's afraid to ask, afraid to know what the answer might be. Because he doesn't think he could stay here if he knows that Sam and Castiel regret their actions and are now only taking care of him for pity's sake, because they feel like they _have_ to. Dean's mostly got over the humiliation that comes with acting like someone's baby, but that would just be too much.

The only thing worse would be finding out that there was the risk of the two of them deciding to adopt another child. Just the idea is enough to make him feel sick to his stomach all over again, suddenly regretting the big supper he'd consumed not twenty minutes prior. He's been there, done that. His father had replaced him with a younger, better model when he married his second wife. He can't bear going through that a second time around, not when Sam and Castiel actually act like they love him.

"Dean? Honey?" Now really concerned, Sam lifts his hand and gently brushes a tear away from Dean's cheek. "Tell me what's wrong."

He shakes his head and refuses to speak no matter how often Sam prompts him. The rest of the bath is spent in confused silence, but when Sam straightens up and makes to step away from the bathtub Dean flails upwards with a low, frightened whimper. Sam reappears instantly, shushing him and stroking Dean's wet hair. There's genuine worry in his face as he lifts Dean out of the bath and tenderly dries him off.

"Baby, if there's something wrong you know you just have to tell me. Daddy can't fix this unless you do," he says quietly, laying Dean out on another fresh towel. 

And for a few seconds, Dean actually thinks about telling him. But then there's a knock on the door and Castiel pokes his head in, nudging the door open just enough to reveal that he has Gertie with him. They look so natural together, a perfect father and daughter that you could walk by on the street, and it's a visual reminder of what Dean is never going to have. 

His eyes well up with fresh tears and he clamps his jaw shut. Sam's face falls. Behind him, Castiel frowns. They both ask him what's wrong, but Dean remains silent. He lets Sam put a fresh diaper on him and put him into footie pajamas - these are blue and patterned with little dogs - and then he clings to Sam when they all go downstairs. Even when Castiel tries to cuddle with him on the couch, which is something that they all know Dean usually loves, Dean shies away from him and fusses until Sam until picks him up again.

The thing is, Castiel is the one who really wanted a child in the first place - and Dean can't help thinking that any desire for a second child might come from him, not Sam. 

" _What_ is going on?" Castiel asks Sam, like Dean isn't even in the room and listening to every word.

"I have no idea, Cas. He's been like this since I took him upstairs to have a bath. Do you think he's getting sick?"

Castiel gets up and tries to put his hand on Dean's forehead. When Dean recoils from him, he freezes. A look of devastation flashes across Castiel's face.

That's about all Dean can take. He doesn't burst into full scale tears very often. He does have a little pride, albeit not much at this point, but he does try to save the real tantrums for the battles that matter the most. But right then he starts crying and he can't stop. All he can think about is being replaced, and how very shortly he's going to be out on his own again, and Sam and Castiel will have a real baby that they'll be able to dote on for as long as they want. 

"Dean!" Sam exclaims. 

Gertie starts howling less than thirty seconds later, and the piercing sound of her screech sails above Dean's quieter sobbing. Castiel visibly hesitates, torn between which child he should comfort, and then with clear reluctance picks up Gertie. Dean sobs harder and buries his face in Sam's shoulder, not wanting to watch Castiel realize how much easier it is for them to deal with Gertie. 

Sam says something low and inaudible over Dean's head, and then they're moving. It's a good thing spring came early this year because they end up outside, though Sam does stop to grab a couple of blankets for extra warmth since the sun has gone down. He carries Dean over to the hammock he's recently strung between two trees. It takes a bit of maneuvering to get the two of them comfortable, but finally Sam is on the bottom and Dean is sprawled over top of him with the blankets overtop of them both.

It can't possibly be all that comfortable for Sam, but he just lays there and rubs a big hand up and down Dean's back for a long time. At one point he wiggles around until he can hook a pacifier out of his pocket and into Dean's mouth. The effect is more instant than Dean would like it to be; he can feel his crying beginning to slow as he sucks at the silicone nipple in his mouth, his teeth working agitatedly at the place where it connects to the plastic. Normally they scold him when he does that, but this time Sam doesn't say a word.

"Please tell Daddy what's wrong, Dean," he says softly, the words barely audible over the wind. 

"I'm not - not a baby," Dean whispers, the pacifier falling out of his mouth. Sam snags it before it rolls off the hammock, his eyebrows furrowed.

"I thought you were more comfortable with -"

He shakes his head, knowing that Sam thinks he means being a baby in general. And yeah, there was a time when Dean had fought against that, but those days are long gone. "M'not like Gertie. I'm... bigger. Harder to deal with. And you're gonna replace me." His voice breaks.

"What? Baby, that is _not_ true. Where did you come up with an idea like that?"

"I think I know."

Dean tenses when he hears Castiel, though he's not sure why he's surprised that his papa was able to sneak up on them considering that Castiel worked as an assassin for years. The hammock swings gently as Castiel joins them, though it's so light and effortless you'd swear he was settling down on a bed and not a flimsy cloth three feet above the ground that already has two occupants.

He says to Sam, "I called Charlie. She picked Gertie up." And then he turns to Dean.

"Little one, we are nothing like your father. And I'm sorry that you ever thought your daddy and I would replace you like he did. That's not true. You're not just a temporary substitute until we find something better. We love _you_. No other baby makes me smile the way you do." He lightly pokes Dean in the nose. "No other baby could cuddle with me the way you do."

"But -"

"No buts, Dean. That's just the way it is."

"That's not going to change," Sam adds. "Dean, if we weren't absolutely certain that we wanted you for life, we would never have approached you. I don't do things without making sure I'm going to follow through. Cas and I watched you for a while until we were sure. And every day that I wake up and find you still here, I'm grateful that we made that decision. I can't imagine my life without you."

"And just because a traditional baby might be easier does not mean either of us want one," Castiel says, "For one thing, those babies grow up. Plus, they're vulnerable for a long time and that's dangerous in our line of work." He tenderly smoothes Dean's hair back. "You've already shown us how strong and amazing you are, and even now you never cease to blow me away."

Dean mulls this over, looking back and forth between them. They look so sincere, and the words come out without his permission. "I... I don't want a brother or sister."

Sam laughs. "Good, cause that's never gonna happen."

"You want me," he whispers, just to be sure.

"More than anything," Sam says firmly, and Castiel nods.

This time when the tears come it's from relief, not fear. "D-Daddy, P-Papa," he chokes out.

Sam gasps, his eyes going wide, but Castiel just smiles so wide it has to hurt and says softly, "We're here, Dean."

Their arms come around him, so tight and so warm that Dean finds he has to believe them. He's not going to be replaced and he doesn't need to worry about Sam and Castiel not wanting him anymore; this is forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. I know I didn't have time to respond to every comment, but believe me; I read every single one and I loved them. They really kept me writing. Thank you!

**Author's Note:**

> My [tumblr](http://tsuki-chibi.tumblr.com/) \- come visit me a little!


End file.
